Rabbit Hearted
by sugarstitch
Summary: By all laws of nature she should be his prey. The sound of her little beating heart calls to the beast inside him. They say that the only time one can be brave is when they are afraid. When the rabbit is dragged into matters much larger than herself, he finds himself fighting desperately to keep her alive.
1. prologue

_**AN: **I've taken a few creative liberties with this story, and it doesn't fully follow the plot of the game. I've also downplayed a few things, mainly the effectiveness of healing potions/spells (since there'd be no risk involved if they worked as well as in game) and also adjusted the Dragonborn's Thu'um abilities a bit (the Dragonborn is still more far more skilled than the average person, but learning words take weeks for them as opposed to years for others, and meditating takes a bit longer than a five minute conversation with Paarthy)._

**_DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Elder Scrolls Series, Skyrim, Vilkas or any other characters within this story besides my dragonborn_**

_Thanks for reading, comments and constructive criticism are both welcome._

* * *

**.Rabbit Hearted.**

Prologue

They had caught the scent. Snuffling like blood hounds half the night had finally paid off, and a long, threatening howl escaped his maw. Muscles sprang into action and with liquid grace they ran, the moonlit plains of Skyrim sweeping beneath their paws. The stench of blood and sweat on the breeze was so exquisite he howled again. The hunger burned inside. Soon enough the keep rose above them, the sentries crying out in dismay and rightly so. He and his siblings were an awesome sight. A new scent reached his nostrils, and it was oh so much sweeter than the tang of blood. He whined low in his throat, the beast longing for the source. It was the scent of fear, and he would be well fed this night.

* * *

It had caught her scent. Smoke filled the air and blotted out the stars as a desperate cry escaped her lips. The fires blazed, casting fiendish shadows on the walls of the keep. She was frozen in place, guards and prisoners alike running in panic around her, screaming, burning and dying. The great black beast turned its glowing eyes on her and she felt her heart thumping painfully in her chest. She coughed, her mouth full of ash and dust as the beast loomed above her. It opened its jaws. She closed her eyes. A hand suddenly grasped her arm, pulling her. She opened her eyes to find the man beside her. He tried to speak, but she couldn't hear over the sound of screams. He tugged again, and slowly she responded. She felt paralysed by her fear, but worked her legs into motion and ran, the beast howling its rage behind her.


	2. the taint of fear

Chapter One

_the taint of fear_

Jorrvaskr's great fire pit was practically roaring this evening, as the Companions shared a celebratory feast. The mead was flowing as an offensively loud chorus of Ragnar the Red was started by one of the warriors. It didn't take long for most of the others to take up the song, tone deaf voices all joining in a drunken melody.

"_Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red  
Who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead"_

Today had been a good day, Vilkas thought to himself as he watched his drunken twin bellowing along with amusement. He had returned victorious, another shard of Ysgramor's legendary axe now in the Companion's possession. The beast had been restless of late, and he couldn't help but feel a vague sense of relief after letting it out to have its fill of bloodshed. Satisfied – for the moment at least – with the prey he had chased down, he sat back comfortably in his chair. Perhaps tonight he could sleep a little easier.

It was with mixed feelings that he thought of the bandits he had just devoured. The beast in him relished in it, but the man couldn't help but feel a pang of shame. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the boons of the beast blood; he just wished he didn't take so much joy in the feel of flesh tearing between his teeth.

"_And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade_

_As he told of bold battles and gold he had made"_

He let his gaze wander, a figure catching his eye. Weaving her way around the drunken warriors was the new serving girl. She was pretty enough, he supposed; her features soft, her hips a little wide, her braided hair the colour of dark honey. When she was close he could smell the fresh scent of soap, and a hint of wild flowers. But it was the other scents that caught his attention. She had the heart of a rabbit, and its erratic pitter patter of a beat made the beast in his chest stir. When she poured mead for the Companions, her fingers trembled slightly. The girl was afraid.

As though she could feel his gaze, her grey eyes darted to his. They met for a moment, before she realised with a start that the mug she was filling was about to overflow. She ducked her head and briskly left the hall, returning to the kitchens.

"_But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red  
When he met the shield-maiden Matilda, who said;"_

It had been close to a full moon since Vilkas had returned from a job to find her foreign smell wafting all around Jorrvaskr, and surprised upon discovering its source. Beyond the occasional hopeful seeking glory amongst their number, the Companions did little hiring and were mistrustful of strangers. Gods knew it had taken him long enough to learn how to deal with the latest whelps, Ria and Sten. The girl was far too enthusiastic, and lacked the skill of the older members. She sat with Athis now, and it was obvious to his eyes that she was not yet a true Companion. She smiled broadly when she caught him looking her way. He nodded before turning back to his drink. Ria had the infuriating habit of following close on the heels of any member she came across, eager to learn and chattering away the whole time.

The boy was just as talkative, full of humour and good cheer. Unlike Ria, however, he was well skilled for his age. Quick on his feet and surprisingly strong for a lad his size, Sten had the makings of a fine warrior – if only he'd stop jesting and do as he was told. It was fine enough to amuse the older members around the hall as he was now – the volume of his singing second only to Farkas' – but the boy needed to learn the time and the place for jokes.

The serving girl seemed to be a direct contrast to the whelps. She barely spoke and seemed intent on avoiding the Companions, her eyes downcast and her steps quick. In a way he supposed he couldn't blame her; it hadn't taken long for Njada to pick up on her edginess, and startling the girl seemed to be her current form of amusement.

_"Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead_

_Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!"_

His attention was caught when he noticed Kodlak Whitemane rise from his seat. Though he held a warm smile on his face, the weariness on the Harbinger's face was apparent. He nodded at Vilkas before turning to the stairs, heading for the living quarters beneath. He'd taken to spending most of his time in his room, poring over books and scribbling notes in a journal. Kodlak had never been known for a writer, and at first this new habit had concerned Vilkas. But the years were catching up to the old man, and though it pained Vilkas to think it, perhaps it distracted him from the fact that he no longer had the energy to fight by the side of his shield-siblings.

"_And so then came clashing and slashing of steel_

_As the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of zeal"_

As the Harbinger disappeared down the stairs, Njada came to the table, her eyes intent. Vilkas followed her gaze to find the serving girl back in the hall, carrying a tray of sweet rolls. Beside him, Aela looked up from her meal. A shared look passed between herself and Njada, and when the girl neared the table Njada stepped forward and barked her name.

"_Dalla!_"

With a frightened cry she jumped, the tray falling to the ground with a clang only just heard over the ruckus of the hall. Her face noticeably red, Dalla knelt to the floor and collected the ruined sweet rolls with shaking hands. Njada was bent over with laughter, and Aela grinned beside him, a predatory glint in her eyes.

"Jumpy little thing, isn't she?" Njada guffawed, flashing her teeth.

"Heart of a sabre cat, this one" Aela snorted. "I'd bet even Tilma could give her a beating."

"Aela," Vilkas warned. "Leave her be."

"What's this?" she responded, turning to him with an amused eyebrow raised. "Someone might think you were sweet on her."

"Don't be ridiculous," he responded coldly. "I just find no sport in tormenting serving girls."

Having finally picked up the last of the mess, the girl fled the hall. Vilkas watched her go with a scowl on his face, and Njada let out another laugh. Aela, having lost interest now that the prey was gone, turned back to her meal, skewering a slice of meat with her dagger. Njada, still chuckling, wandered off to join the others in their song.

"Was that really necessary? I expect that kind of childish nonsense from Njada, but you?"

"It's only a bit of fun, shield-brother."

When he didn't relent, Aela's face hardened.

"There's no place for cowards in this hall."

"Were she a new recruit, I would agree with you. However, she's a serving girl, and as long as she serves food and ale, it shouldn't be an issue."

Though she said nothing in response, Aela at least had the grace to back down and let the matter drop. Vilkas could even smell a faint trace of guilt coming from her when Tilma appeared, armed with a cloth and bucket to mop up the cream now smeared on the stone floors.

Belly full of ale and a hearty meal, Vilkas finally felt the call of sleep. Getting to his feet, he turned to the stairs and his waiting bed as his much inebriated brother sung the last lines of Ragnar's downfall with a passionate roar.

"_And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more-_

_When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!"_


	3. unbroken

_**AN: **Thank you so much to those who have reviewed and fav/followed so far, it really means a lot to me that you're enjoying this so far. And thank you so much to Fearless Fault - your lovely comments most definitely made my day :)_

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Chapter Two

_unbroken_

The woman before him stood with her arms crossed, one hip jutting and a self-indulgent smirk on her face. The arrogance came off her in waves and the look in her eyes told him she refused to be denied this time. With sleep yet again becoming a scarce luxury, he couldn't find the patience to deal with her. Uthgerd was a fearsome warrior – if the stories were true – but she was hot-headed to a fault, and inflated egos were not something the Companions sought to recruit. Glory was often coveted amongst their number, but in the heat of battle with no one but a shield-sibling to watch your back it was crucial they did just that. Too many good men and women had wound up dead when their partner had thought of nothing more than getting their own name into the songs.

Having been cornered on the patio in the late afternoon, after turning her away multiple times before, Vilkas found himself running out of excuses. He sighed.

"I'm sorry, but we're not recruiting at the moment."

Uthgerd's face soured, her heavy brow knitting into a frown.

"Shor's bones, that's a crock of dung and you know it. Your numbers haven't been this low in years. Besides, you took on that whelp of a boy just the other week." She pointed harshly at Sten, who was recounting a story about a Khajit trader he'd met on the road, much to the amusement of the Companions seated with him. "He's barely seen sixteen winters – how can he be worth more than me?"

Vilkas sighed again, setting down his tankard and turning his gaze to meet his brother's eyes. Farkas was frowning, his jaw set. Whether it was a side effect of the beast blood, or merely the connection of siblings, the twins never had any trouble picking up on what the other was feeling. Though he leaned back easily in his chair, Farkas had the same misgivings, the subtle look on his face telling Vilkas he didn't approve. But if Vilkas had no more excuses to try, he knew his brother would have nothing useful to offer. Finally Farkas shrugged, and he was left with no choice.

"Fine," he said at last, getting to his feet. "But new bloods aren't considered true Companions from hearsay and stories alone. We've all had to prove our worth. If you can show yours, the Harbinger will consider you."

The gathered Companions rose from their seats, half-finished drinks and uncounted gold forgotten on the tables. Uthgerd strode down the steps to the training yard, her eyes set and teeth flashing a grin. She drew her great sword from the straps on her back and stood ready.

"Which one of you softguts dares challenge me?" she taunted, eyeing each in turn.

Torvar staggered forward – already drunk – sloshing ale down his front as he waved his tankard.

"Since you insulted him just now, I nominate Sten."

A few chuckled at the stunned look on the woman's face. Vilkas frowned. Sten was still a whelp, and the insult was plain. Perhaps it would deter her at last. Her face flushed red, but she soon regained her composure, her eyes full of fury.

"Fine," she grated, raising her sword. "You want me to prove my worth? Give me all you've got!"

By now everyone but Kodlak was present, even old Tilma and the serving girl Dalla. Aela looked to Sten, who replied with a sheepish grin. He'd not been with them long, and though he was decent enough with a blade, he was young and still had much to learn. Regardless, he stepped forward and drew his sword. Uthgerd's eyes narrowed as he collected his shield and stood before her, his stance ready. Before waiting for confirmation, Uthgerd lunged forward, swinging her sword. Sten side stepped her easily enough. The boy was smaller, without the burden of heavy armour to slow his movement. Uthgerd recovered, turning to swing again. This strike hit his raised shield with a clangour, the force of it making him stagger slightly. Regaining his balance quickly, he sliced at the heavy woman's side. She deflected the blow with her sword, turning it aside easily and swinging at him again. He ducked and backed away, shield raised.

Uthgerd's movements were efficient and graceless, a direct contrast to Sten's quick steps. Despite the earlier misgivings, Farkas watched the fight closely, enthusiastically cheering with his shield-siblings. Vilkas remained silent, scowling. Sten appeared to have the upper hand, his movements quick as he darted around the woman, but if there was one thing Vilkas knew, it was that experience trumped youth. He admired Sten's form – impressive for a whelp, even more so for one so young – but footwork and speed meant nothing if you couldn't land a decent hit. Uthgerd was keeping him on the defensive, hacking and swinging while giving him no chances to retaliate. The boy was growing weary, while Uthgerd – graceless as she was – showed no signs of slowing down. She grunted with each blow, her teeth displayed in a snarl while sweat dripped down Sten's face. All humour was gone from his expression, replaced with a look of frantic concentration. Tilma returned to the hall, muttering under her breath about the work yet to be done that day. Dalla remained, seemingly unable to look away with one hand held to her mouth and the other clenched in her skirts.

His attention snapped back to the fight when he heard a cry. Sten was stumbling backwards, the sleeve of his arm dark and wet. Uthgerd closed in, unrelenting as she slapped his shield away with the flat of her blade. Sten backed away and she followed. Her eyes, somehow focused and yet not all there were wild as a final burst of effort from Sten knocked her sword from her hand, causing him to lose his own in the process. Furious, she punched Sten straight in the face. Vilkas started, stepping forward in alarm. Face wet with blood from his broken nose, Sten's cry was cut short as Uthgerd brought him down, her fist colliding again with a sharp _crack_. He fell to the ground in a broken heap. Silence fell as Vilkas ran to the boy, kneeling beside him. He gasped for breath, once. Twice. Then was still, staring sightlessly at the darkening sky. Vilkas lowered his head, gently closing the boy's eyes. When he looked up, Uthgerd stood with her sword already returned to her back, her chest heaving.

"Well?" she panted. "Am I worthy yet?"

Vilkas stared at her incredulously. "You've killed him," he snarled, teeth bare.

Uthgerd finally looked at the boy. Her expression remained the same.

"It… it was an accident," she said at last.

"An accident?" Vilkas replied, his voice low and cold. "The boy is _dead_."

"I didn't mean for that to happen, I… I just lost control. All I want is to join you, I-"

At this he snapped, anger boiling over into his voice.

"_Lost control?_ He was just a boy! There is no place here for people like you! If you can't control yourself then you can leave!"

He could smell the sour reek of anger emanating from her as she stepped towards him, her fingers already reaching for her sword. Before she could draw it he was on his feet and in front of her, itching to strike. For the first time he saw doubt in her eyes. She was nearly of a height with him, and despite her bulk she stepped back, a look of alarm on her face.

"_Vilkas_!"

The sharp demand in the Harbinger's voice made him pause, fists trembling at his side. Kodlak's face was hard as he took in the situation. Vilkas swallowed his anger, but couldn't keep the ire out of his voice.

"I said _leave_."

Uthgerd opened her mouth to protest, but after another look at him, Kodlak on the steps behind, she backed down. Her hand dropped to her side and she left without another word, disappearing into the gathering darkness. The Companions were silent, faces grim. Vilkas scowled at Torvar, who stood in stunned silence, sobered by the scene.

"Next time," Vilkas hissed, rounding on him, "you will keep your mouth _shut_."

Torvar didn't protest, his eyes on the ground. Slowly, as though waking from a dream, the Companions stirred. Farkas – his face bleak – gently picked up Sten and carried his body away from the yard. The Priest of Arkay would tend to the corpse. The others moved slowly into the hall, silent but for Ria, who shook with sobs. Kodlak again looked tired, the hardness of his face moments before gone. He grasped Vilkas' shoulder for a brief moment, then turned and followed Farkas to the Hall of the Dead.

Vilkas looked back once to find Dalla still standing on the steps, her eyes wide as she stared at the blood slowly congealing on the stones. He sighed before turning back to the doors. There was a splatter of blood on her skirts, shining like an accusation in the light of the dying sunset.


	4. the weight of guilt

_**AN: **Just wanted to say thank you again for the follows/faves and reviews so far - they really mean a lot to me :)_

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Chapter Three

_the weight of guilt_

Sleep evaded him. Though he longed to embrace it like an old lover and surrender himself to its unknowing depths, it remained one step ahead of him. Sleep never came easy, but tonight it would not come at all. Sten's face haunted him. Snow white and daubed in blood, he looked to Vilkas with unseeing eyes, his whispered words accusing. He should have protected him. He knew it was ridiculous – not to mention pointless to dwell on – but he felt the responsibility placed squarely on his shoulders. He was the one who had relented to the woman's request – he should have been the one to face her. When Torvar volunteered the boy, he should have denied him. When Sten stepped forward, he should have stopped him. When the woman struck the boy in the face, he should have intervened.

"Should have, should have, should have," he growled to the darkness, covering his face with clammy hands.

It was no use. Feeling his restlessness, the beast was awake and fretting, pawing at the edges of his mind. Biting back an involuntary snarl, he threw his furs aside and padded from the room, bare feet cold against the stone floor. He left the mead hall and made his way to the concealed entrance to the Underforge, fingers easily finding the hidden switch in the dark. The door slid open with a groan, and he passed straight through to the exit, dropping himself easily down the ledge and into the night. Taking a deep breath of crisp air, he looked out over the tundra plains, ears pricking at every sound. The wary stag by the White River, lowering its head for drink. The owl gliding on whispering wings. The field mouse it hunted, scuttling through the long grass. He longed to let the beast take control, to lose himself and forget. Shedding his clothes, he did so.

Despite years of experiencing the change, it never did get any easier. Bones cracked and muscles stretched as his body rearranged and broke itself, expanding. A low groan grew into a growl within his throat, and just as the swelling in his chest felt as though it would burst, the pain melted away. His senses were preternaturally sharpened and attuned as a man, but compared to this form they were nothing more than a pale shadow. The night was alive and his to consume. Salivating at the thought, he ran.

The beast had no thoughts to spare for guilt or regret. All the complications of being a man slipped away with his skin, leaving nothing more than the simpler mind and needs of an animal. Hunger, and the simple joy of running free in the night ruled the mind of the beast, and so he indulged both whims. Deer were easy prey. By the time the cautious creature caught his scent he was already upon it, tearing skin and flesh to ribbons. After his fill he ran again, a shadow hunter among the trees. The taste of freedom was nigh impossible to refuse and so Vilkas forfeited himself to the wolf, losing all sense of time.

* * *

Stepping softly through the trees, he stalked. Keen eyes peering through the dark, he watched every subtle movement of his prey closely. Its breath shuddered through its mouth in puffs of fog, and the deep drum beat of its heart resounded in the silence. It was drenched in fear, separated from its pack and so deliciously alone. He crouched low, muscles coiled and ready to spring. A twig snapped sharply underfoot behind him, raising the hair on his hackles as he realised _he_ was the one being hunted. He turned and raked his claws into soft flesh, his stalker falling quickly. There were more. Focusing on his prey had left him blind to the movements of the rest of its pack, and they were more cunning than he'd assumed. An ambush.

They circled around him, each with a single long claw that glinted in the moonlight. Another approached and he roared, muscled arms flexing. In the moment it hesitated he pounced, teeth sinking into exquisite flesh. He felt a sudden stab in his side and it _hurt_, burning beneath his pelt. He turned and snarled, a massive paw snuffing out another life. Now he was furious. _He_ was the hunter; they dared to harm _him_? Howling, he launched himself into the fray.

When the last of the pack had fallen, choking on the blood bubbling up its throat he stopped. Doubt had been slowly sneaking up on him throughout the fight. Doubt was a foreign concept to the beast, and as it grew the wolf began to retreat, allowing the man to resume control. Vilkas returned to himself with a gasp, naked and shivering in the night. His head hurt, as it always did when he changed for so long. The cut in his side still stung, but it was a shallow wound and needed little attention. As he checked the bandit's corpses he frowned. They at first appeared unremarkable, though paranoid; most of their number carried some form of concoction against disease. More concerning however, was that each and every one had wielded a weapon with a blade of silver. He did not like implications of that. Stripping the breeches and shirt off one, he dressed quickly. Grimacing, and careful not to touch the blade, he wrapped one of the swords in salvaged linen before starting off. Days had passed, and he was far from home.

* * *

"Welcome back, shield-brother."

Though she stood in the shadows by Jorrvaskr's doors, he could clearly see the concern on Aela's face.

"Shield-sister," he acknowledged, nodding to her.

"You've been gone for some time now."

"I… I had some things to mull over."

A pause, then, "It wasn't your fault you know."

In a way, it was oddly comforting to be surrounded by people so attuned to one another's feelings. It reminded him that they were more than just a pack – they were a family. He didn't answer, but briefly grasped Aela's arm as he passed her and stepped into the hall.

The fire burned low in the great pit, casting a soft glow on Tilma, who was clearing up the last of the plates from dinner. The other Companions had all retired for the night.

"Good evening, dear," she said as she passed, a tired yet warm smile on her face.

"Good evening, Tilma."

Downstairs, he found most of his comrades asleep, Torvar snoring loudly. He passed by quietly so as not to wake them. None stirred but the serving girl, who tossed in her sleep as though caught in an unpleasant dream. When he reached the Harbinger's rooms, he was unsurprised to find the candles lit and Kodlak sitting at his table, writing as was now his habit. He looked up, putting down his quill. His face was grim.

"You've returned," he said, gesturing for Vilkas to sit. "I'm afraid you've missed the funeral."

Vilkas lowered himself into the chair opposite Kodlak, and remained silent.

"Terrible tragedy," Kodlak continued, sighing. "And one you couldn't have foreseen, lad."

Again, Vilkas didn't answer. Instead he placed the sword he'd taken from the bandit on the table between them.

"You'll come to realise you weren't at fault, in time." Kodlak surveyed him a moment, before finally turning his eyes to the wrapped bundle. "What's this, then?"

"I took it from one of the bandits who tried to ambush me."

Frowning, Kodlak reached out and pulled the linen away. When he saw the glint of silver, he withdrew his hand, his frown deepening.

"Where?"

"Not far from the Cradlecrush giant camp."

He stared at the blade as though it were an omen, his face dark.

"Have you ever heard of the Silver Hand?" he asked at last. Vilkas shook his head. "They are a band of werewolf hunters. I've had dealings with them before."

Vilkas looked at him in surprise, a flash of annoyance in the pit of his gut. "Why was I never told? Surely if they pose a threat…"

Kodlak shook his head. "This was years ago, when you were but a boy. I had thought Jergen and myself to have finished them. It seems some must have escaped us. Did they see you transform?"

"No, Harbinger."

"Hmm…"

Kodlak remained silent for some time, deep in thought. Finally, he covered the sword again, picked it up and put it away in his bedroom. When he returned, Vilkas was surprised by what he saw. It was hard to imagine Kodlak as anything but a hardened warrior, quick to laugh and even quicker to draw his sword. The man before him looked old and weary.

"The Silver Hand know the secret of the Circle, lad. If they are stirring again, it won't be long before they're on our doorstep. We'll have to be careful – all of us. They may seem like a rabble of simple bandits, but they are ruthless and unforgiving. We must not take them lightly."


	5. a true companion

_**AN:** As always, thank you for the favs/follows and reviews. I hope you all aren't finding this too slow to start off with - personally I prefer things to develop a little slower, rather than being rushed. I just hope I'm not going to slow aha._

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Chapter Four

_a true companion_

"Brothers and sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold."

The late afternoon light glinted against the armour of the warriors gathered in the yard, faces passive with respect for their ritual. The Circle stood facing Ria, the Harbinger taking centre place as he intoned her acceptance. The rest of the Companions stood in the shade of the patio, watching in silence. Dalla found herself watching with them, intrigued by the ceremony as she absentmindedly wiped crumbs from the tables. Most things in the mead hall were new to her, and a recruit becoming a full Companion was no different.

Ria had returned from her last trial earlier that afternoon, covered in dust and cuts yet smiling. Vilkas, his face impassive, had been one step behind. As was tradition, a shield-sibling always accompanied the recruit to gauge whether they were truly ready. With a brief nod to his brother, Vilkas had confirmed Ria's competence. Kodlak had been summoned, and the ceremony begun.

A broad grin spread across Ria's face as she stood before the Circle, her hands clasped in front of her. The blade at her side was wet with blood, drawing Dalla's attention away from the Circle. A sudden bitterness darkened her eyes as she recalled the taunts of the older Companions. _Weak. Scared._ She'd often wondered what it would be like to wield a blade, to feel strong and unafraid, rather than a trembling wretch. She pushed the thought aside and returned her attention to the work in front of her. Though dull, this at least she knew.

When she looked up again she caught the eye of Farkas, who smiled at her. The large man had surprised her with his kindness since she'd arrived at Jorrvaskr, proving that looks could indeed be deceiving. Easily the largest warrior of the group, he was fearsome in appearance, with slashes of black paint over his eyes. Despite this, he radiated with a simple warmth. A man of few words, he was one of the few warriors that made her feel more at ease. She smiled shyly back, but returned her gaze to the Harbinger when he spoke.

"This woman has endured, has challenged, and has shown her valour. Who will speak for her?"

Steel coloured eyes containing none of the warmth of his brother's, Vilkas stepped forward.

"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us."

Shorter and leaner than his twin – but no less fierce – Vilkas stood with his arms crossed firmly over his chest. His gaze seemed rather cold and calculating, as though there was always some form of thought occurring behind his eyes. Dalla had heard Skjor joke that Farkas had the strength of Ysgramor, while Vilkas had his smarts. She had no doubts it were true. Though much of his spare time was spent training in the yard, he was just as likely to be found consumed within the pages of a book. His cold eyes turned to meet her own, and for a moment she felt trapped, unable to look away. It almost seemed like there was a hunger in his gaze, an intelligence that wasn't quite human. At the same time there was something more, if only she could place it. Kodlak's voice broke through and she pulled her gaze away.

"Would you raise your shield in her defence?"

When she chanced another look at Vilkas, his eyes were on the Harbinger.

"I would stand at her back, that the world might never overtake us," he intoned gruffly.

"And would you raise your sword in her honour?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes."

"And would you raise a mug in her name?"

"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in her stories."

"Then the judgement of this Circle is complete. Her heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call."

"It shall be so," the Circle recited together, and the ceremony was complete. Ria was a whelp no longer, and she was practically beaming. Kodlak smiled as the other Companions turned towards the hall.

"Well, girl, you're one of us now. I trust you won't disappoint."

"Of course Harbinger," she blurted. "I am so honoured to finally be accepted amongst the great Companions."

He smiled again, gesturing for her to follow himself and the others into Jorrvaskr. Dalla watched them pass, receiving a wink from Farkas, stepping back a little as Njada shot her an amused look. She felt very small, and there was a longing for something deep in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't quite place her finger on. Her eyes dropped as Vilkas strode past, but he didn't look at her.

She started when Tilma's hand brushed against her shoulder.

"Leave the tables, dear. They'll be feasting late tonight, so we'd best get to the kitchens."

* * *

Tilma had been right. It was close to morning by the time Dalla was able to retreat downstairs and slip gratefully under the sheets of her bed. Stifling a yawn, and now engulfed in the quiet dark, she found herself unable to cease her thoughts. Though serving the warriors, cooking in the kitchens and cleaning around the hall was simple work, it offered a distraction from the endless loop of fears and worries that clouded her mind.

The drinking and celebration had gone far longer than she'd expected, and while watching the older warriors congratulate Ria with pats on the back and toasts had been a pleasant change from the violence of the other week, she couldn't help but feel conflicted. Though she was happy for Ria – the other woman had been nothing but friendly, if a little overbearing – she couldn't cleanse herself of the bitterness that had surfaced earlier. From the titbits and impressions she had gathered while serving the warriors, it wasn't exactly a secret that Ria grated on many, getting caught underfoot like an over-excited puppy. And yet she was now a member of the esteemed Companions, and she had earned their respect. Jealousy wasn't an emotion Dalla was overly experienced with, and it left an unpleasant tang in the pit of her stomach.

Though there had been cheer and drinking all night, there was also an unspoken sadness in the hall. The loss of Sten had left an absence felt by all, and Ria's acceptance as a Companion – while a worthy reason to celebrate – had also served as a reminder of the boy who should have been accepted with her. Vilkas had especially seemed affected; he had sat quietly away from the others all night, brooding over his ale. Glancing at him sparingly while serving drinks, Dalla felt she'd begun to understand what she'd seen in his eyes earlier: guilt. Death left a mark on those who remained, even those whose lives often revolved around it. It was a mark as permanent as the blood she'd found on her dress, which despite the time she'd spent scrubbing at it, had remained stubborn and dark.

Rolling over and bringing the blanket up to her chin, she tried to banish thoughts of death and jealousy, and will herself to sleep. The moment she closed her eyes however, flames danced in the darkness, and a pair of fang shaped eyes gleamed. Opening her eyes again with a gasp, she covered her mouth to trap the sob in her throat. In the quiet dark, she was afraid to dream.


	6. dreams

_**AN:** As always, thank you for the favs/follows and reviews. I really appreciate it :)  
_

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Chapter Five

_dreams_

He woke with a gasp, fingers tangled in the damp furs around him. The beast strained in his chest, awake and fretting at his distress. With an effort he reigned it back; it didn't give in easily. He could taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue, and realised that he'd bitten into his lip while he thrashed in his sleep. Damp with sweat, he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It was still dark.

Splashing his face with water from the dish on his side table jolted him fully awake. The cold was welcome against his hot skin. He stood, and with his hair still dripping turned to his door, craving the cool, fresh air outside. Stepping out into the night, a sweet scent wafted to him on the breeze, and he breathed deeply. The aurora was bright above him and peppered with stars, waves of light drifting lazily across the sky.

He had been dreaming, a rare occurrence since his turning. Already the details escaped him, images crumbling away the longer he stood there. Darkness was all that remained now, and pain. They were visions he did not care to remember.

The sudden thunk of steel on wood broke him from his thoughts. His hand reached automatically for the blade that was not there as he silently stalked around the hall to find the source of the noise. As the training yard came into sight, he was vaguely surprised by what he saw. The serving girl was swinging wildly at one of the training dummies in the yard. Her hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to her neck. That rabbit heart of hers was beating even faster from the effort of lifting the heavy weapon. The sight was so absurd he almost let out a laugh.

She had yet to notice him, and he took a moment to watch her fruitless attempts. Her form was laughable; it was painfully obvious that she had never so much as picked up a sword before this evening. No longer able to resist, he crossed his arms over his chest and spoke.

"Your stance is weak."

She started and spun on the spot, eyes wide. The sword fell from her hand and hit the ground with a sharp _clang_. Upon seeing him standing there, her eyes darted away from his, one hand wringing the wrist of her other arm.

"I didn't expect anyone to be awake," she said softly.

"I don't sleep too much these days." He lowered his arms and walked towards her. "What are you even doing out here?"

She flinched at the bark in his voice, and didn't answer. His eyes narrowed as he studied her, trembling and avoiding his gaze. A thought occurred to him.

"I wouldn't take anything Aela or Njada say to heart."

She looked up at him then, her eyes sad, and he knew he'd hit the mark.

"They don't mean anything by it. Aela comes from a long line of Companions; she doesn't know any different."

"But she's right," Dalla said after a moment. "I should be able to fight."

"There's no need for you to be able to fight," he replied gruffly. "So long as you reside beneath Jorrvaskr, myself and the other Companions will protect you should the need arise. You're a serving girl, not a warrior."

She looked away again, a slight grimace on her face. He'd meant to be reassuring, but apparently had invoked the opposite.

"I don't want to be a serving girl forever. I'm tired of being _afraid,_" she muttered, as though to herself. "I want to learn to be brave."

Vilkas shrugged. "Some say the only time one can be brave is when they are afraid."

She turned to him with an expression he couldn't quite place. She almost seemed surprised. Now he stood beside her, he could smell wild flowers through her sweat. Catching herself, she lowered her eyes again.

"I don't feel brave," she said at last. "If I did I could go… well, somewhere. If I could fight…" she trailed off.

Eyes downcast, it caught her completely off guard when he stepped towards her, hooking his foot around her ankle and sweeping it out from under her. She fell back with a yelp, but before she hit the ground his hand shot out to grasp her by the wrist of one flailing arm.

"You wouldn't last five seconds in a real fight."

He yanked her back to her feet and she took a few panicked steps backwards, smoothing down her skirts briskly. He felt a pang of guilt at frightening her, but he wanted to prove his point. Too many whelps got themselves killed with fantastical dreams of grandeur. If she ever left Whiterun, he figured she'd be dead within a week. The thought brought Sten to mind, his loss still raw. Would he still be with them, had Vilkas spent more time training him? The boy should've been here today, accepted as a Companion along with Ria. His only legacy now was a dull blood stain on the stones.

"Stand up straight," Vilkas said suddenly.

Dalla jumped, but did as she was told.

"Feet shoulder width apart, and keep your weight spread evenly between them."

She shifted her skirts and again followed his instruction. He examined her stance, nudging her feet with his boot until he was satisfied. Stooping to pick up the sword she had dropped, he shook his head.

"This sword is too heavy for you." He could feel her eyes on him as he walked to the weapon rack. He glanced at the lighter weapons before choosing a wooden practise sword. "Here. Try this one."

She took the sword he offered, looking at it with a disappointed frown. "It's lighter, but what am I meant to do with a wooden sword?"

"Learn," he said shortly, recrossing his arms. "When you actually know how to use one, we'll see about a real blade."

She looked at him in surprise. "We? You mean… you're going to teach me?"

"If I leave you alone you'll only end up hurting yourself; or damaging the swords," he replied wryly.

Her cheeks flushed a vibrant shade of pink in response. He wondered for a moment what he had gotten himself into, before pushing the thought away. Maybe this was the sort of distraction he needed. Though hopeless, she took in every word he said, obediently following his instruction. By the time they finished that night, her stance at least had improved. Yawning as she trudged to the hall, she turned back once, giving him a small smile.

"Thank you."

Before he had a chance to respond, she'd slipped through the door. The stars above were beginning to fade as dawn approached, the pale aurora with them. He hadn't been able to help Sten. Maybe he could help her.


	7. hard work

**_AN: _**_Oh my gosh, this story has reached over 1000 hits! I know that's nothing compared to a lot of other author's works, but it means so much to me, so thank you!_

* * *

Chapter Six

_hard work_

"Remember to breathe, and _relax!"_

The nights had been cold of late, the breeze crisp. Despite the chill, sweat slid uncomfortably down Dalla's back, and her hair felt damp and heavy.

"It's difficult to relax with you breathing down my neck," she muttered under her breath.

"You'll thank me," Vilkas growled behind her, "if the day comes when a bandit is breathing down your neck and you actually know how to defend yourself."

Her face felt suddenly warm, and her grip on the hilt faltered. He always managed to catch her off guard with his eerie sense of hearing. No matter how quiet, he always heard her. Each night she approached the yard, he would know she was there before she could even see him. It was unnerving, but surprisingly easy to forget.

She tightened her grip on the practise sword, still feeling embarrassed. She knew she was being sulky and childish, but the words and reactions often came before she could stop herself. She was ashamed. Improvement came slowly – if at all – despite the number of nights she had spent under Vilkas' impassive gaze. Every stance, every swing, every step was scrutinised, adjusted and repeated until her muscles cried out from the strain. Most nights she wondered why he had kept this up for so long. Had their roles been reversed she would have given herself up as a lost cause a long time ago. Instead, he had surprised her with his patience. Though gruff as ever, he wasn't as cold as she had first perceived. His instruction was blunt but not unkind, and though their own commitments kept them from training every night, more often than not when she arrived after finishing the day's work he was already waiting, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're not holding it right."

She gave a start when he was suddenly beside her, reaching for her hand and adjusting her fingers on the hilt. His hands were rough but pleasantly warm despite the airs chill.

"Hold it, but not too hard. You're too stiff. Grip with your thumb and first two fingers. There. Try again."

She took a deep breath and attempted the swing again, bringing the sword down in a long arc to collide with the dummy's shoulder.

"Much better. See? If you loosen your grip, the swing is more effective."

Praise came rarely from him, so when she heard it now a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Another rarity, he briefly returned it before turning his eyes to the stars above. The breeze picked up, cool against her face as it played with loose strands of her hair. It brought Vilkas' scent with it. He smelt of wood fire, a hint of dinner's roast lingering and something else, a strange musky odour she didn't quite recognise. Not necessarily unpleasant, just different.

"It's late," he said, turning his eyes back to her. "That's enough for tonight."

They walked in silence down to the sleeping quarters, Dalla suppressing a yawn with the palm of her hand. If nothing else, at least all the training made her too tired to dream. Vilkas paused before turning down the hall to his room.

"I'll be gone a few days. The Harbinger has a job for me. Use the time to catch up on sleep."

He didn't wait for her to respond before walking away, one hand rubbing the side of his face wearily as he went. He disappeared just as Aela emerged from the darkness. Instinctively Dalla's eyes dropped. The older woman spared her a brief glance before passing by. Dalla watched her go with a pounding heart until she heard the sharp _snick _of the doors closing. Breathing out a sigh, she crept to her bed and settled into it, sleep enveloping her swiftly.

* * *

The next few days surprised her by passing so slowly. Without practise in the evenings she found herself lying awake at night, her mind often drifting to wonder where Vilkas had been sent, and what sort of work he was doing. At the heart of it, the Companions were mercenaries for hire, though they would tell it differently. To them, they held a position of honour, which in many ways was true. Rescuing kidnapped civilians was just as common as raiding bandit camps in their line of work, and occasionally one would be hired as a guard. If the gold was good, the warriors were available for most requests, though their honour did require exceptions.

Her days were dull yet busy, cooking and cleaning, occasionally being sent on errands. While sweeping the patio, she watched the others sparring, finally able to pick out each warrior's style of fighting. Farkas fought much like his brother, though there seemed to be less thought behind his strikes. Though both brutal, she had noticed that Vilkas was far more calculating, watching his opponent as much as his own movements. Aela sparred with a fluid grace Dalla envied, her steps light as she whirled, dagger glinting in the sunlight. She was just as quick with her bow, notching and letting loose in one swift sweep of her arm. Each arrow hit its mark.

Skjor watcher her appreciatively from his chair. The older warrior didn't spar as much as the others, seeming more content to watch with his good eye. He exuded a sense of strength, however, his place as Kodlak's second well earned. The one time Dalla had seen him fight, his ruthless efficiency had awed her. A subtle look passed between him and the red headed huntress as she sheathed her dagger and strode towards the Skyforge, which loomed above the yard. It seemed the hall was full of secrets that were quite well known; as she lay awake in bed, she had glimpsed the two of them slipping out late in the night. Rumours always followed, though none of the warriors brought them up while either were around.

Skjor stood just as Farkas approached, and stalked off into the hall. Dalla poured a mug of beer as Farkas sat, and he took it from her gratefully.

"Thanks," he managed after draining the mug in one long gulp. She poured another, which he drank more slowly. He looked at her over the rim of his mug with a slight frown.

"Aela and Njada still giving you trouble?"

The truth was, they hadn't. She'd learnt to avoid them for the most part, but the times when contact had been unavoidable they'd remained civil. Perhaps her novelty had finally worn off, and they'd grown bored of her.

"Not for some time, no."

Farkas gave a satisfied nod.

"Vilkas can be pretty persuasive when he wants to."

"Vilkas?"

He laughed loudly at the shock on her face, one hand slapping the table.

"My brother may seem like a cold bastard, but he's softer than he looks." He smirked at her slyly. "You should know that by now."

Though she felt her face warm, she mustered enough dignity to reply that she didn't know what he meant before retreating inside, his good-natured guffaw following behind. She was still a little embarrassed of her nightly training, though she couldn't entirely figure out why. The Companions already thought her weak; her lack of improvement shouldn't be too surprising. She also guessed that it shouldn't have come as a surprise that the others knew about it, even if it had never been mentioned. Just another secret to add to the others of the hall.

* * *

The sights and smells of the Whiterun market were a welcome change, and Dalla revelled in the opportunity to browse the wares on offer. Tilma had been feeling under the weather lately, so she had sent Dalla to pick up some supplies for the kitchens. Before long the basket on her arm was heavy with fresh fruits and vegetables from Carlotta's stand, the pretty woman giving her a good price for buying so much. Though the fresh cuts at Anoriath's stall looked tempting, she had no need to shop there: Aela provided the kitchen with venison from her regular hunts.

After admiring the trinkets on offer from Fralia Grey-Mane and finally having had enough of the weight of her basket, she turned back to Jorrvaskr when a tall blond Nord stopped her.

"Well hello," he crooned. "Here's a face I've not seen much of. My name is Mikael. I'm a bard by trade. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

His smile was wide, but didn't reach his eyes. He smelt strongly of lavender, and though his hair shone golden and clean in the afternoon light there was something about him that was intense and unnerving.

"I'm afraid I haven't, sorry."

"Well that's a shame," he replied with a look of feigned shock. "I enjoy a steady patronage in the Bannered Mare. I do hope you'll watch me perform."

"Oh. The hall is awfully busy in the evenings, so I don't think-"

"You come from Jorrvaskr? Surely those brutes could do without their ale brought on a silver platter for _one night_? I'll even play a new sonnet, just for you."

"Th-that's very kind," she stammered, quite flustered. "But I-"

"I really can't take no for an answer."

She realised with a start that he'd slid his hand around her waist, attempting to steer her towards the Inn. Panicked, she looked around at the closing stalls, but the shopkeepers were focussed on packing up their unsold wares. She turned back to protest when the man now in front of them flooded her with relief.

"If you don't remove your hand, bard, I'll break it."

Mikael turned milk white when he saw Vilkas. Though weary and smudged with dirt, his steel eyes were cold. There were specks of dried blood on his chest plate.

"H-hail Companion," Mikael spluttered as he raised his hands in submission. "No trouble here, I… I'll be heading back."

Without a backwards glance, he walked briskly up the steps of the Bannered Mare, disappearing inside.

Vilkas turned to her, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm gone, what? Four days? And already you get into trouble?"

She opened her mouth with a scowl, ready to argue that she had been minding her own business when she realised she didn't have the energy for it. His face darkened suddenly, and he asked more seriously, "Has he approached you before?"

Closing her mouth she shook her head. He seemed relieved, but soon his frown was back.

"Snowberried milk-drinker." He spat on the ground in disgust. "He's been trying to make his way through the beds of all the women in Whiterun, charming them with poetry and the like. It'd be something to see him try his 'charms' on Njada or Aela."

Without another a word he took the basket from Dalla, carrying it easily in one hand as he strode across the now empty market. He stopped and looked back, beckoning her to follow with a jerk of his head. She caught up and walked beside him, rubbing her arm where the basket's handle had chafed it raw.

"Thank you."

He glanced down at her. "Don't mention it."


	8. the new threat

_**AN: **__Not entirely happy with this chapter to be honest, but that's probably because I find writing about dungeon crawling pretty boring aha. I hope you all enjoy it anyway. Oh, LTCup, I assumed you didn't need a disclaimer (this being a fanfiction site) but I added one to the prologue just in case :)_

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Chapter Seven

_the_ _new_ _threat_

It was sometime after midday by the time they found the tomb, put together long ago by the ancient Nords. It was easy to miss for those not looking; the only markers drawing attention to the pit were a ring of weathered stones. If Skjor's source was correct, Dustman's Cairn contained a shard of Wuuthrad.

The brothers looked down into the pit before descending the spiral stairs. One glance and a nod from Vilkas, and Farkas pushed open the heavy door to the tomb. Inside it was dim, the air thick and dry. The lack of light was no issue for them however, their keen eyes peering through the dark.

"Looks like someone's been digging here. And recently."

Vilkas nodded, his fingers itching to grasp the hilt of his sword. Perhaps the scholar had been on to something after all.

"Tread lightly, brother."

They passed quickly through the first room, noses crinkling at the reek emanating from the draugr corpses littering the ground. Traversing the dark corridors, they heard the tell-tale grunt of an active draugr. Drawing their swords in one swift movement, they cut the snarling creature down in two swipes. The sound attracted more, shambling husks raising their jagged swords as they approached. The brothers automatically took up their fighting stances, stepping around each other as they swung into a routine that felt as familiar as a well-known dance. Fighting with Farkas had always come naturally. They were so in tune with each other's style that they could predict the other's movements before they happened. Before long, there was a pile of dry corpses at their feet, though one had managed to nick Vilkas' arm before it died again.

"Careful, brother," Farkas quipped. "I don't want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back."

Vilkas snorted. "Considering the amount of times I've dragged your sorry arse home from the Bannered Mare, you'd only be returning the favour."

Farkas laughed in response, opening the wooden door to the next room. The tunnel ahead was even darker than the room behind them. Cobwebs drifted softly in the draft passing through, and Vilkas felt his brother shudder. Farkas loathed spiders. Smiling to himself, Vilkas moved forward, brushing the cobwebs aside as he passed. They broke delicately, floating to the ground.

More corridors, until they descended a set of crumbling stairs into a large room, lit brightly with torches on the walls. Both kept their weapons drawn, ready. After a quick scan they found the passageway ahead locked. Vilkas searched warily around for a lever, or some form of contraption to open the gate. In an adjacent room, Farkas found one.

"Here!" he called, reaching for it.

"Wait," Vilkas barked, his eyes narrowing. Inspecting the doorway, he pointed. Farkas followed his gaze, but it took a moment to see what Vilkas was indicating. The very tips of a row of iron spikes jutted from the top of the doorway. A gate, much like the one already barring their way.

"Oh," Farkas said at last. "You think it's a trap?"

"Could be. Could just be paranoid. I'd rather not find out."

They searched the rest of the chamber before finally finding another lever, hidden away around a short bend. Vilkas glanced at Farkas, who merely shrugged before pulling it. With a satisfying rasp the gate slowly slid upwards, clearing their way. They had just stepped towards the passage when they caught the scent. Out of the doorway poured a group of bandits, and Vilkas recognised them immediately for what they were even before they drew their silver weapons.

"It's time to die, _dogs_!" one spat.

"Your mistake, Companions – we knew you'd be coming here."

"Which ones are they?" a woman asked uncertainly.

"It doesn't matter," she was answered. "That one wears the armour, they both die."

Reassured, she taunted, "Killing you will make for an excellent story."

"None of you will be alive to tell it," Farkas growled.

For a group of werewolf hunters, the Silver Hand were easy to deal with. Kodlak had warned them to exercise caution, but Vilkas' dealings with them so far had left him mostly unimpressed, and a little disappointed. He'd be lying to himself to say that the thought of a real challenge didn't thrill him.

Once the last had been cut down, they exchanged a brief look before pressing on. Within the depths of the crypt they found more of the Silver Hand and the occasional draugr, both falling easily enough to the two warriors. As they descended lower the air grew colder, and before long they reached a room coated in webbing, clusters of bulbous egg sacs clinging to the walls and floor.

"Frostbite spiders," Farkas cursed behind him. "Of course there'd be frostbite spiders."

As though summoned by Farkas himself, two of the monstrous spiders emerged from the gloom, pincers clicking. Farkas stepped back, leaving Vilkas to deal with them. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why Farkas was so afraid of the damned things. They were easy enough to kill; the only thing to be concerned about was the great globs of venom they spat, but even that was just a matter of stepping out of the way. Farkas heaved a sigh of relief once they were dead.

"Thanks, Vilkas."

Vilkas rolled his eyes and wiped the venom off his sword onto one of the creature's hairy body. Farkas stepped gingerly around it, narrowly avoiding the spider's leg, which was still twitching.

The gentle trickling sound of water greeted their ears, and they soon found the source. An underground stream flowed through the crypt, filled by a softly cascading fall of water from above. The water smelt pure, so they filled their skins before continuing on, spray from the waterfall dampening their hair and forming droplets on their skin. It felt cool and refreshing after the stifling dry air of the crypt.

Just as Vilkas was beginning to grow impatient, an iron door came into view. Opening it and stepping through, they found themselves within a cavernous alter room, illuminated by torches and pits of fire. The walls were lined with dark stone coffins.

The pair stalked slowly to the end of the chamber. A large, ornate sarcophagus took centre place, behind it an embalming table where keen eyes spotted the fragment they were seeking.

Farkas whistled. "Skjor's scholar friend was right."

Vilkas grunted in response. His attention was caught by the curved stone wall at the end of the chamber. Elaborate carvings adorned it, and as he got closer, he was intrigued to find crude scratchings etched into the stone.

"What's that?" Farkas asked, frowning at the wall.

"Dragon script, by the look of it."

"Dragon?"

Vilkas reached out, laying his palm flat against the carvings. So subtle he could have imagined it, the stone seemed to pulse beneath his hand. Frowning, he took his hand away. They had come for the fragment. Instinct told him it would be best to leave the mysterious wall be.

Still puzzling over the indecipherable scratchings, he turned to the table and picked up the shard of Ysgramor's legendary axe. The ebon piece safe in his pack, the brother's turned to leave. A sharp _crack_ sounded, and dust spilled out of the opening coffins around them, followed by draugr who gnashed their teeth, barking in their guttural tongue. Expecting an ambush, Vilkas had his sword drawn long before the first undead reached them. Slipping into their accustomed dance, the brothers fought til the last draugr fell.

Panting from exertion, Farkas took a long draught from his water skin. The ornate coffin had contained a particularly nasty wight; it had taken the two of them together to bring the bastard down.

Glad to be breathing fresh air back outside, they found the sun just sinking behind the distant mountains. Vilkas' mind still dwelt on the dragon script they'd discovered, curious to know what the etched words meant.

"You coming?"

"I think I'll hunt tonight." He took the fragment from his pack and handed it to Farkas. "Take that back to the old man, would you?"

"Sure. See you back home then."

He watched his brother disappear into the night before shedding his skin, a euphoric howl sounding over the plains.


	9. control

_**AN: **Sorry for taking so long to update! Life kind of got in the way and I've been swamped with things lately. Hopefully I can update quicker again :)_

* * *

Chapter Eight

_control_

Night swaddled him like a mother's embrace, filling him with sounds and smell and sight. The light of the twin moons above caressed him like a kiss. He'd hunted well tonight, his belly full of fresh kill. Though the night was still young, he turned homewards. He'd not travelled far, the great keep of Dragon's Reach still visible in the distance, looming ever closer as he loped home. Sniffing the air, he paused. Something sweet drifted towards him on the breeze, followed by a scent far more tantalising. Fear. A growl rumbled up his chest, and unable to resist, he followed his nose. Stalking through the dark, it wasn't long before he found it; in the shadow of Whiterun's great wall, a pack was gathered, circling a lone figure. The source of the sweetness, and the delicious fear. The pack had yet to notice him, their attention rapt on the figure as they taunted it with sharp blades.

"Give us yer gold," one snarled, stepping forward.

The figure retreated, back pressed to the wall. She held a blade too, though it shook in her trembling hands as she held it in front of her.

"I- I don't have any!"

Shoulders tensed, he hunched low, ready to spring. Her wide eyes darted from one figure to the next. Suddenly they met his glowing in the dark, and she screamed. The pack turned then, but too late. Fear flooded his nose as he ripped them apart, gluttonously feasting though he'd already had his fill for the night. They were easy prey.

Maw dripping with blood, he turned to the figure and snarled. Her racing heartbeat was a drum pounding in his head, calling to him like a summoning bell. Eyes bulging, her chest heaved with panicked breath as he approached. Plump flesh beckoned, and he salivated at the thought of closing his jaw around it and sinking his teeth into its softness. The odour of her fear was somehow familiar, but too tempting for the beast to resist. He was almost upon her when her eyes changed, a glimmer of something making her lower the dagger slightly.

"V-Vilkas?"

At the sound of her voice he stopped; though the beast strained, the man was now aware. He knew that word. It belonged to him somehow… his name. He jolted suddenly back into control. He knew her smell. The serving girl. A low whine escaped his jaw as he lowered his head, taking a step backwards. Still trembling, the dagger fell from her fingers.

"It – it's you, isn't it?"

He whined again, suddenly ashamed. The shock set in as he realised what he'd almost done. She was staring at him. From the look in her eyes he was certain that all she saw was a monster. He backed away a few more steps, giving her room to breathe. Stepping gingerly away from the wall, she kept her wary eyes on him as she gathered the parcels scattered at her feet. He could almost feel her heart jump in her throat as her hand brushed against a severed arm that had escaped his jaws. Fingers now wet with blood, she wiped them absently on her apron. The sight of the shining streak smeared there caused him to unconsciously lick his chops. All he could taste was blood.

Slow and low to the ground, he took a few steps towards the gates of Whiterun, pausing to look back at her. After a moment she followed, but kept her distance. They walked in silence, save for her shallow breath and the trickling whisper of the White River. Enveloped in darkness, she tripped once, quickly regaining her balance and darting backwards as he turned to her. When the first farm came into view he stopped, shrinking back into the shadows. He would go no further. This close to the city, she should be safe. He looked back at her, then to the road ahead. She seemed to understand, and cautiously stepped past him towards the path, looking back once over her shoulder. When she reached the road and a yellow clad guard came into view, he fled.

* * *

It was long past dark by the time he returned to Whiterun, hands clenching by his sides. He knew he should have gone to her, explained what he was, what had happened. But he'd stayed away. It wasn't just the horrified way she had looked at him, how she'd kept a sizeable distance between them and trembled as he led her to the gates. It wasn't even what he had almost done to her, though that frightened and unsettled him greatly. He'd let the beast have free reign for far too long, foolishly thinking it could control itself. Her fear had smelt exquisite, and the longing for her taste had lingered even after he'd regained himself. All of this, troubling as it was, could have been dealt with. But she recognised him. Somehow, she had seen the man in the monster and that frightened him more than anything. It had been a long time since someone outside the Circle had discovered the secret of what he truly was.

When he reached Jorrvaskr, he ignored the front doors and instead walked wearily around the hall. He was vaguely surprised to find her waiting, leaning against the wall with her arms wrapped around herself. To his relief the wolf remained quiet.

She stepped forward when she saw him, her arms dropping to her sides. Her hands quivered much like they had when she'd first arrived at the hall. A long moment passed during which neither spoke. Uncharacteristically, he broke eye contact first.

"I… I suppose I should explain."

She nodded, one trembling hand reaching to grasp her braid. Now it came to it, he wasn't sure where to begin. Searching for words, he found none, so it was a relief when she broke the silence.

"W-what was – how long have you been a… whatever that was?"

Now prompted, he found it easier to find his words.

"A werewolf," he replied softly. "My brother and I took on lycanthropy when we'd seen fifteen winters."

Her eyes widened. "Farkas is – are all the Companions… werewolves?"

"No, only members of the Circle are granted the beast blood."

"Beast blood?" she murmured.

"It was all started by Terrfyg, a Harbinger of the Third Era who made a pact with the witches of Glenmoril. They granted the Companions great power in return for serving their lord, Hircine."

"The Daedric prince?" she cut in, clearly disturbed.

He nodded. "Since then, the Circle of the Companions have taken on the beast blood. We attain the great power the witches promised, but upon death we serve Hircine in his Hunting Grounds."

It was a strange sensation, discussing lycanthropy with a human so bluntly. She was taking it all much better than he'd expected, chewing her lip as she mulled it over.

"I… I must admit, I'm surprised to find you out here."

She frowned. "Why?"

Anxiously, his hand clenched again.

"You're not afraid of me?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Do I have reason to be afraid of you?"

"So long as I have control I would never harm you," he answered without thought.

"Then I am not afraid."

He couldn't help but snort humourlessly. "You say you're not brave, but it's either that or stupidity."

Her frown deepened as she clutched her braid a little tighter.

"But you saved my life."

She looked so serious standing there, and though he could smell the coppery tempo of her racing heart she remained steady, her eyes unwavering. If she only knew how close he'd come to swallowing her whole.

"You have me there," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. A pause, then, "I have to ask; how did you know it was me?"

She blushed suddenly, finally looking away.

"I… I could smell you," she said at last, quietly.

"I beg your pardon?"

Her cheeks flushed darker. "I noticed some time ago, that you smell… different. Not foul or anything-" she gave him a quick apprehensive glance, "-just different. I'd never smelt it before coming here, but I did again last night."

Whatever bizarre answer he'd expected, it certainly wasn't that. He had always been able to catch the scent of his pack, but had also assumed it was due to his heightened senses. That humans could smell it too was news to him.

In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, he gruffly steered the conversation in another direction.

"What were you doing out there after dark?"

She looked up again, seeming to be glad of the change in subject.

"Nirnroot."

"Nirnroot?"

"Tilma sent me to Pelagia Farm to pick up some cheese. Nimriel insisted I stay for supper, so it was already after sundown when I left. I noticed the glow of Nirnroot down river, and Tilma had mentioned a few times that she'd like some to add more flavour to her stews. I figured I'd get it for her, only it was further away than I'd first thought. By the time I realised how far I'd gone, those thugs showed up out of nowhere and… well. You know the rest."

He stared at her incredulously, and she began chewing her lip again.

"Well," he said at last. "I… I trust I don't have to tell you that this beast business is a matter of the Circle, and needs to remain a secret."

"Oh, of course." She still seemed wary, but gave him a small smile. "I doubt anyone would believe me even if I wanted to tell."

A wry smirk tugged at his mouth, but before he could respond the doors opened behind him.

"Vilkas," Skjor barked. "Kodlak wants to see you."

The older man looked furious, but stalked off and around the hall before Vilkas could ask any questions. He glanced at Dalla, who watched Skjor go with a slight frown. He probably owed her more, but now was not the time. Excusing himself, he entered the hall. That had all gone better than anticipated, but now his earlier anxiety returned. Surely it was no coincidence that Kodlak had summoned him now.


	10. the promises we keep

_**AN: **As always, thank you so much for the continuing support 3_

* * *

Chapter Nine

_the promises we keep_

He found the old man in his usual spot, sitting at his table and surrounded by books.

"Ah, Vilkas. Sit down, boy."

Vilkas took his usual seat opposite the Harbinger, and found the words bubbling out his mouth before he could stop himself.

"I know the beast blood is a matter of the Circle, and that it should always be kept secret but it was an accident. I can assure you she'll hold her tongue."

Kodlak's eyebrows rose as he leaned back in his chair.

"By the Nines, lad! What are you talking about?"

Vilkas hesitated, confused.

"The serving girl. She knows about the beast blood." When Kodlak's expression didn't change, he continued. "Last night I came across her while returning home. She was being robbed and I… well, I saved her." He felt a ripple of guilt at leaving the whole story unsaid, but Kodlak seemed not to notice.

"Did you now?" he said with a smile. "Farkas told me you've been helping her, teaching her how to fight. It's good to see you taking interest in a girl again. You've been far too focussed on work of late, and-"

"It's not like that," Vilkas denied hotly. "If I left her to play with swords she'd only end up hurting herself. And gods know what those men might have done if I hadn't intervened."

The smile on Kodlak's face said plainly that he was not convinced. "No matter," he continued after a moment, the smile fading. "The girl isn't why I summoned you."

"Harbinger?"

There was a knock at the door before Farkas entered.

"Pull up a chair, boy."

Once Farkas was settled, Kodlak leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. He sighed before starting. The twins listened closely, Vilkas at first uninterested by the Harbinger's talk of dreams and visions. He'd never been one to search for meaning and wisdom in dreams; the few he did have were rather straightforward, and left an unpleasant taste in his throat. The longer Kodlak spoke, however, the more his temper began to rise, turmoil blistering in the pit of his stomach. His respect for the old man was the only thing that kept him from interrupting. Farkas was silent, his eyes unreadable while a frown creased his brow. By the time Kodlak finished, Vilkas was livid.

"You mean to tell me, that all this time, we had a _choice_?"

Kodlak's eyes were sad as he answered. "It would seem so."

As a lad, barely able to grow his own chin hairs, Vilkas had been desperate to partake in the beast blood. It had seemed a necessary rite of passage, becoming a man by becoming a beast. As the years passed, however, the grandeur and pride had worn thin, causing him to constantly question himself and whether it had been worth it after all. The years had forged them into one, making it difficult to tell where the man ended and the beast began. To be told now that it had been a _choice?_

He turned to Farkas expectantly, but his brother remained silent and nonchalant as ever, his brow still furrowed. Agitation got the best of him, and he slammed his palm on the table. Kodlak surveyed him with morose eyes.

"You feel deceived."

"You're damned right I do!" Farkas looked at him in surprise. "All this time, all these long damned years I've been struggling with what I am. But it was all okay, it was all bearable because I didn't have a _choice._ You're telling me it was all for nothing? That we gave up Sovengarde to spend an eternity battling the nature of our blood in Hircine's realm for no better reason than those who came before us did the same? I could have-"

He stopped, choking on the words. _I could have eaten that girl_.

"I understand, Vilkas," Kodlak murmured, and the look in his eyes told Vilkas that he truly did. "Please sit down, though. I'm not finished."

He'd been so consumed by his rage that he hadn't even noticed getting to his feet. His chair lay toppled behind him. Face still hot, he yanked the chair back onto its legs and sat down. Farkas reached out to grasp his forearm briefly. Vilkas ignored him, his burning eyes on Kodlak.

"I believe there is a cure."

Farkas turned quickly to Kodlak; Vilkas merely stared.

"I haven't found it yet, but I believe that somewhere in the magic" – Vilkas twitched in agitation at the word – "of the Glenmoril witches who started all this, there is a cure."

"How are you gonna-"

"Do the others know?" Vilkas asked in a clipped voice, cutting his brother off.

"I've spoken to Skjor. He didn't take it well either. I have no doubt he's told Aela by now. I don't expect them to come around. They always took to the blood deeper than any of us."

"So that's it then," Vilkas said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Not quite, there's one last thing."

_More_? He did not think he could handle more, but he mustered enough self-control to remain quiet.

"I don't expect an answer right away. I understand that I'm asking much of you both. But… should you wish to pursue this cure with me – by no means will I force your decision – but if you do, I believe it would be best to give up our transformations."

Vilkas' eyebrows rose. Not give in to the call? Was it even possible? He'd thought for so long that despite his struggles, he was in control and the beast obeyed his will. The events of last night had planted the seed of doubt. But would denying it altogether strengthen his will, or only cause the beast to strain harder?

"Think on it, won't you?" Kodlak said, rising stiffly from his seat. They were being dismissed. Vilkas stood and strode from the room without another word, Farkas close behind. In the hall, they looked at each other.

"What do you think, brother?"

Farkas took a long moment before replying.

"Don't know yet."

Vilkas nodded, knowing Farkas' words for what they really meant: whatever Vilkas decided, Farkas would follow. He left his brother to retire to the bar where he made his bed, and stalked outside to clear his head. Dalla was nowhere in sight, but leaning easily against a pillar on the patio was Aela, her dark eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"The old man spoke to you then."

Vilkas nodded, rubbing his temple wearily.

"Give up the beast blood," she scoffed, more to herself than to him. "It's who we are shield-brother, and nothing to be ashamed of. The old man can't expect us to give it up just because he's grown soft."

"Watch yourself shield-sister," he replied with a growl. "You go too far."

Her face darkened, traces of the animal peering through her eyes. It was unnerving at times, how much the wolf was present even when she wore her human skin.

"The serving girl was asking for you today."

Vilkas didn't respond.

"How long are you going to keep up this training nonsense with her?"

"As long as it takes," he replied, tone clipped.

"You're going to be at it a while then. The girl's not a warrior. Although… you could always turn her."

In an instant his hackles rose.

"_No_."

She smirked, sensing his agitation. "Just because you struggle with what you are, doesn't mean your pet would feel the same. Besides, that at least would make her strong."

"If you so much as _touch_ her-"

"Relax shield-brother." She sniffed in disdain. "I have no wish to pass on my bloodline to a coward. She's safe from me."

He watched her go reproachfully, disappearing into the Underforge. Aela embraced the beast in a way he had never been able to, taking the good with the bad as one. To her, it was the greatest gift she'd been given in life. To Vilkas, it wasn't a gift to be a monster. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he gazed up at the stars. His decision had been made.


	11. stories

_**AN: **__Sorry for the slow update again, I've been pretty busy lately and having a little bit of writer's block. I'm kind of getting close to when things really start happening, so hopefully once I get into that it'll be easier to write._

* * *

Chapter Ten

_stories_

One month. It had been one month since he'd made his decision, one entire month he had denied the beast. It was furious. The second week had been the hardest, never going so long without changing in all the years since he'd first taken the blood. It tried to sneak up on him, catch him off guard while in the heat of a fight. He denied it. He'd made a promise to the old man in the end, and he had every intention of keeping it. He was handling it better now, though his temper lurked constantly just beneath the surface, and it took even less these days to set it off.

Farkas had handled it all with infuriating ease, as he did with most things. When Vilkas questioned how he was coping, Farkas would shrug and tell him it was no big deal. Simple as he was, Vilkas envied his brother's easy going nature at times.

The easiest way he'd found to distract himself was by launching himself into work. He was disappointed to find that killing bandits and troublesome beasts was less satisfying when he couldn't sink his teeth into them, but took comfort in the thought that this at least was the honourable way to do it. Besides, he still enjoyed the thrill of the fight regardless of the weapon he wielded. The gold was an added bonus.

Another distraction came in the form of Dalla. He hadn't known how to take it at first when she started seeking him out during the days. Instantly on guard and suspicious of her taking on the irritating habits of Ria, he'd been relieved to find himself relaxed before long. She didn't follow on his heels at every moment, and seemed better able to pick up on his moods. He found her content to sit quietly when he had no desire to talk, and she listened intently when he did, even going so far as to jest with him when he was in good humour. Much of her time was still spent working around the hall, but he'd grown accustomed to her presence. Her knowledge of his secret had at first disturbed him, but in time he'd almost found it to be a relief. She knew what he was, and – to some extent, at least – what he was capable of yet she didn't shy away from him. Her skittishness around him had faded back to the ease they'd shared in the training yard before that night. Though the beast roused at her scent, he often wondered if she served as a constant reminder of what he was capable of, helping him deny the call of his blood. Just as often – though he was loath to admit it – he wondered if he just enjoyed her company and really had gone soft, as Farkas liked to tease. Either way, the staccato beat of her heart had become almost as familiar as his own.

* * *

She found Vilkas at the Skyforge, sharpening his great sword while the grizzled blacksmith Eorlund Grey-Mane worked the bellows, shadowed by the great stone eagle that loomed above. Sweat dripping down his brow, he grunted in acknowledgement as she passed him to sit next to Vilkas at the edge of the Forge. She liked coming to the Skyforge; it was so high up the slope of Whiterun that she could see the vast plains spread out around the city, and further still to the towering mountain range in the distance, dusted white with snow. Just about any chore that didn't require a specific location she brought with her to sit and gaze over the walls while she worked. That Vilkas spent much of his free time here was another reason she enjoyed it.

A cool breeze from the mountains ruffled her hair as she settled herself beside the warrior. Her work was done for the day – at least until supper – so she took the time to relax, stretching her sore arms in front of her. Vilkas eyed the wrapped package she'd brought with her, which she opened to reveal two boiled crème tarts from the kitchen. A small smirk appeared on his face as she passed one to him.

Tilma was fond of telling Dalla stories of the hall and its Companions as they baked. Some time back, as she rolled out the pastry for a fresh apple pie, she had recounted the times she'd caught the twins sneaking into the kitchens as boys in the middle of the night, stuffing their pockets with treats. No matter how many times she'd scolded them, rapping them smartly on the backs of their heads they didn't give it up. And just as many times as they thought they had evaded her successfully, she would find them, fingers sticky with cream and their guilty eyes avoiding her. They were cunning, she said, but old Tilma was more cunning still. Boiled crème tarts had been Vilkas' favourite, so Dalla had been sure to sneak one for him from each batch since.

"Best make sure Tilma doesn't find out," he said, after eating the tart in three bites.

Dalla laughed. "Something tells me she'd scold you more than me. She'd probably think you put me up to it, seeing as she still won't let you into the kitchens."

"Something tells me that's actually pretty likely."

She ate her own tart in silence, enjoying the cool breeze and bright sunshine. The cow penned up across the other side of the Wind District lowed softly, and the pleasant scent of fresh bread wafted up from the Plains District market. Dalla had avoided the market since her run in with the bard; her cheeks grew pink at the thought of him trying to woo her. She hoped Vilkas' warning had stuck, and that Mikael had moved on and set his sights on another woman.

"I think you're about ready for a real sword," Vilkas said, breaking her from her thoughts.

"Really? I didn't think I'd improved that much."

The look on his face told her he thought the same, but he covered it quickly with a smirk.

"Well, let's just say that I think you've improved enough to use a real sword without poking yourself in the eye."

She bristled at his teasing, but with a mischievous smile pulling at her lips.

"Careful, Companion; you might find yourself having to fetch your own tarts."

He quirked an eyebrow before letting out a laugh.

"Apologies if I've offended the lady," he said, inclining his head in a mock bow.

She felt herself blushing again, and covered it by turning to look out over the wall. A giant could be seen in the distance, slowly loping along the road with a painted cow trailing behind.

"You're forgiven, this time at least."

He laughed again, turning back to his sword. Eorlund was hammering at his steel, each strike resounding with a dull _clang_. Dalla finally finished her tart, licking her fingers clean before wiping them on her apron.

"So how much has Tilma told you about Farkas and myself when we were pups?" Vilkas asked, a suspicious gleam in his eyes.

"Only all the times you got yourselves in over your heads in trouble, of course."

"Of course," he muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

"I particularly liked the story of you and Farkas running away from home. Is it true you only made it as far as the stables outside the city?"

His face reddened slightly, but he laughed.

"That was entirely Farkas' fault. Ice-brain got homesick as soon as we walked out the gates."

"Tilma said Skjor found you both sleeping in the stalls with the horses."

"Yes, well-"

He stopped suddenly. His nose twitched as he sniffed the air, as though searching for the source of something.

"What is it?"

Not answering, he turned to look over the Wind District, swiftly getting to his feet. Dalla craned her neck to look, confused, before finally spotting what had bothered him.

Aela approached the hall. She was hauling an armoured corpse on her back, her eyes wild with anguish through her war paint. Vilkas watched for a moment, his eyes narrowed. The whetstone suddenly dropped from his hand and he made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Dalla scrambled to her feet and followed as Eorlund turned to see what the commotion was all about. By the time she caught up to Vilkas, she was shocked to discover who Aela had dragged home: Skjor. Her teeth bare, she looked like a feral animal. When the other Companions came out the front and Farkas reached for Skjor's body, she snarled like an injured beast, drawing her dagger. Standing protectively between the others and Skjor's corpse, she faced Vilkas with her wild, wounded eyes.

"_The Silver Hand will tremble at out sight"_


	12. grief

_**AN: **I just wanted to say thank you so much again for the reviews I've been getting lately - I'm so glad people are enjoying my story, and that people like Dalla! It seems to be a trend with Skyrim fics to have kind of OP protagonists. I wanted to do something a bit different but was worried people might find her a little boring haha. Also, I've increased Aela's reaction to Skjor's death a fair bit in this chapter. I just found it kind of lacklustre in the actual game, considering how close they were meant to be._

* * *

Chapter Eleven

_grief_

The Huntress disappeared. One sleepless night for the Companions, her cries and shouts echoing down the hall from the Harbinger's rooms, and the next morning, silence. The Circle had stayed with her long into the night, consoling at first, later arguing when she refused to be comforted. No one attempted sleep – it was fruitless to try – and so instead they all sat around the great fire pit in silence, avoiding each other's eyes and wincing at each burst of anguish from Aela downstairs.

Athis had his arm around Ria, patting her clumsily as she cried. His crimson eyes were filled with grief. Torvar was deep in his cups, though silent, unlike Vignar who muttered under his breath, occasionally speaking aloud to Brill. Njada sat away from the others, staring sightlessly at the wall. She was pale, her face blank as though with disbelief.

"He was always so kind to me," Tilma muttered sadly beside Dalla. "A bit rough around the edges, but a good man."

She couldn't help but agree. Though she'd had little to do with the scarred man, he'd never been unkind to her. It was strange to think him gone – he'd always seemed practically undefeatable. She shuddered to think what sort of opponent had finally bested him.

The sound of something smashing suddenly came from downstairs, followed by Vilkas' raised voice, though she could only catch snippets of what was being said.

"-utterly ridiculous-"

"-will avenge-"

"-_stupidity_-"

Hours later, the noise finally died down and one by one the Companions retired to their beds. By the morning, Aela was gone.

Grief hung in the air of the hall like a cloud, and the twins spent much of their time in the Harbinger's rooms, though what they discussed, no one knew. Dalla waited in the yard hopefully each night, but Vilkas didn't appear. Rather than train by herself she crept back to her bed, lying awake for hours.

When days had passed and Aela still hadn't returned, finally the twins emerged, red eyed and weary. Farkas took the drink Dalla passed him, but Vilkas merely shook his head. His sword was strapped to his back, a pack full of supplies slung over one shoulder. His face was grim. Without another word he left, the doors banging shut behind him.

"He's gone to find Aela," Farkas said, answering her unasked question. "If anyone can bring her back, it'll be him."

Dalla's felt her stomach drop a little.

"But… Aela never made the promise not to turn."

Farkas' eyes darkened for a moment.

"It's okay," he said at last. "Vilkas knows how to handle himself.

He was right, in the end, though it was well over a week before Vilkas returned, sporting a black eye but with Aela in tow. The huntress looked broken, streaks of blood on her armour and her eyes dead. She didn't look at anyone as she walked past, disappearing down the stairs. Vilkas watched her go with pity in his steel eyes. Sighing, he sank into the chair next to Farkas, this time accepting the drink Dalla offered with a muttered thank you.

"Where did you find her?" Farkas asked once his brother had swallowed most of his ale.

"Gallows Rock. She's been sniffing out the Silver Hand's strongholds. It wasn't easy convincing her to come home."

"Is she okay?" Dalla asked quietly, chewing her lip.

His eyes saddened, and he finished the mug of ale before answering shortly with, "She will be."

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the Skyforge, he sharpened his great sword. Each swipe of the whetstone produced a _shink_ing sound against the steel. Eorlund was working meticulously on a shield behind him. The blacksmith was a man of even fewer words than Farkas, though he was more quick-witted. Idle chit chat did nothing more than infuriate him, and even his wife Fralia could get little out of him. Ria had been banned from the Forge not long after she'd arrived, Eorlund having had enough of her ceaseless questioning. She'd run down the stairs red faced and teary eyed; the blunt man was not one for subtlety when in a foul mood.

Aela had quietened over the past few days, slowing coming back to herself. Her blood still sang with the need for vengeance, but for now, at least, she'd finally listened to Kodlak, and stopped her private war against the Silver Hand. She spent most of her time in either her own room or Skjor's, avoiding the other Companions and rifling through his books. So long as she remained within the city, Vilkas was content to let her be and grieve in her own time.

The midday sun was high in the sky above, cotton soft clouds drifting slowly across it. He glanced at Dalla, sitting beside him with a basket of potatoes, her apron filled with peels. Her hand was steady as she held each one, the other grasping her paring knife. She made quick work of them, the peels growing into a long curl before falling into her lap. _If only she were as efficient with a sword, _he thought with a smirk. She'd still made little progress, though they'd finally moved on to actual sparring – if he could call it that. When it came to weapons she was still so timid, and lacked strength behind her blows. Despite assuring her that she wouldn't hurt him, she hesitated before landing each strike. Nonetheless he kept it up. There was a strange sort of satisfaction to be gained when she did improve, and at the very least he'd noticed her confidence growing. So much so that she finally seemed at ease within the hall, no longer scuttling about with her head down.

Dropping the knife into her lap, Dalla wiped the drop of sweat trickling down her brow. Her eyes turned to look out over the wall. She was nearly done with the potatoes.

"Will you be going to war?" she asked suddenly, in a quiet voice.

He followed her gaze to the plains surrounding Whiterun, where a small troop of Imperial soldiers were marching towards Solitude. There was sadness in her grey eyes as she watched them go. He'd often wondered whether she was a refugee from the war. A farmer's daughter, he'd assumed, who'd made her way to the safety of Whiterun after getting caught up in the fighting. Questioning Kodlak after she'd first arrived had yielded no more than a shrug in response. The Harbinger had told him she was here to work, and her past made no difference. The one time he'd come close to asking about her life before Jorrvaskr himself, she'd suddenly changed, hands trembling and eyes wary like a rabbit. He'd let the matter drop, and hadn't asked again.

"There are always good reasons to fight. I just wish this war had them. Who cares who worships what dead god? Not that it matters –the Companions take no part when it comes to war. We stay out of politics."

Her relief was immediate, and pulling her eyes away from the soldiers, she turned back to her peeling.

"Do you think the war will come to Whiterun?"

He frowned. It was a question he'd often pondered himself.

"The Jarl is a smart man; he's kept the city out of it all so far, but I'm not so sure it'll stay that way. Whiterun is in too useful a position to be ignored forever."

Her eyes darkened again, and he cursed himself inwardly for being tactless.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much. The city would be well protected should it come to it. Besides, the Companions have resided within Jorrvaskr since Manwe and Menro built the hall. We won't be run out of our home by some petty civil war."

She smiled, though it appeared to be more of a grimace. For some time there was silence but for the scrape of Vilkas' whetstone, and the dull clang as Eorlund worked on the shield.

"Has it been difficult?"

He looked up from his sword. "What?"

"Staying human."

As if on cue the beast stirred, straining against his will. It wanted to feed, to sink its teeth into soft plump flesh. Shamefully, the thought made saliva pool in his throat. She smelt so sweet. He turned back to sharpening, his strokes considerably more firm.

"Yes."

Seeming to sense his agitation, she didn't ask him to elaborate, instead finishing the last of the potatoes. Collecting the basket and holding her apron so as not to spill the peels, she made her way towards the stairs when Eorlund stopped her.

"Girl," he grunted. "I've been working on a shield for Aela. I've still got a lot of steel to shape, so I'd be much obliged if you could take it to her for me."

She paled a little, but shifted the basket onto her wrist to free her hand and took the shield. Taking care on the stairs, she made her way down and into the hall. Vilkas watched her go with a frown, swallowing. His thoughts returned to the war, his gaze turning back to the soldiers disappearing into the distance. He wondered just how long it would take before it spilled over onto their doorstep.


	13. the fall of a warrior

_**AN: **So sorry for the long hiatus, life has been a bit overwhelming for a while now. Too many things going on at once aha. As always, thank you for the kind words and sorry to those who have been waiting. Also a special thank you for the lovely review from bokhi. I absolutely adore The Girl With The Golden Hair, so that review means a lot._

* * *

Chapter Twelve

_the fall of a warrior_

Aela was in her room, reading a thick tome with a frown. Her lip curled when she looked up to find Dalla standing in the doorway.

"What is it?" she snapped impatiently, turning back to her book.

"E-eorlund just finished this for you," Dalla stammered, offering the shield with trembling hands. "He asked me to bring it to you."

The huntress looked up again, eyeing the shield. She looked tired, dark circles under her dull eyes. Despite Dalla's fear of the woman, her heart went out to her. Loss was never an easy burden to bear.

"Just leave it by the door."

Dalla gently placed the shield where Aela indicated, leaning it against the wall. She knew little of blacksmithing, but she had heard of Eorlund's work being legendary across all of Skyrim. Straightening, she hovered in the doorway, wringing the wrist of one arm. Aela turned her cold eyes on her again, fingertips tapping irritably on the page of her book.

"What else?"

"I…" Her voice faltered, but she swallowed and continued. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. Skjor was a good man."

Aela's lips drew back in a snarl, her eyes suddenly glowing amber in the dim light. Heart racing, Dalla stepped back. Though she longed to flee, she stood her ground, grey eyes locked on the huntress' amber. Aela rose to her feet, her fists clenched as she stepped forward with a growl. Dalla stared into the eyes of the beast beneath Aela's skin, her heart thumping painfully in her throat. Suddenly, the huntress' hostility fell away. A long moment passed between the two women; one terrified, the other looking lost and somehow small. For the first time since Dalla had arrived at the mead hall, she saw the vulnerable side of the huntress, normally hidden away behind pride and sarcasm. Her eyes faded to their normal hazel green, and the coldness was lost beneath grief.

"Thank you," she whispered.

As suddenly as it faded, the frown returned and Aela slipped straight back into her usual persona.

"Go on then, surely Tilma's got something for you to do other than stand around."

Dalla nodded, retreating down the hall without another word.

* * *

"But I still hear the call of the blood."

Sitting in his usual seat at Kodlak's table, Vilkas noted that the old man looked tired as ever in the dull light of the single lit torch. His face was strained, deep lines tracing his features.

"We all do. It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome."

It was the answer he was given each time he brought it up with the Harbinger. Patience, control, and we shall overcome it. Kodlak had come no closer to finding a cure, though not for lack of trying. Each time Vilkas visited Kodlak in his rooms there were more books and scattered pages littering the table and floor.

"You still have my brother and I, obviously. But I don't think Aela will come around. Especially after Skjor…"

Kodlak sighed. "He should not have gone alone. My heart still weeps at the loss of Skjor, but his death was avenged. Aela has taken more lives than honour demanded. The cycle of retaliation may continue for some time, and I fear her actions will have drawn their attention."

"You think the Silver Hand will focus their attacks on us?"

"I cannot know for certain, but would you not do the same, boy, if positions were reversed?"

He mulled it over, a frown on his face. Considering his previous encounters with the bandits, to focus themselves on the Companions would be folly, surely. But it was true; he would do exactly the same. It was not a comforting thought.

* * *

Something was wrong. Waking suddenly in the dark, his ears pricked at the sound of combat and his nose twitched at the coppery scent of blood. Throwing off his furs, he grabbed his sword from the rack beside his bed and launched himself out of the room. He turned the corner into the hall to find a group of the Silver Hand. They were already bruised and cut from fighting, silver swords flashing in the dim torchlight as they slashed at Njada and Torvar. His fellow Companions were slick with sweat, teeth bared in matching snarls as they fought. More of the bastards slipped past the fight, and Vilkas threw himself into the fray, blood singing with fury as he cut them down. The three of them combined were more than a match for the bandits, and before long the floor around their feet was littered with corpses. Panting from exertion, and seething at the audacity of the group – they were stupid enough to attack Jorrvaskr itself? – his stomach suddenly dropped. _Dalla. _Torvar and Njada ran to join the fight upstairs, but Vilkas sprinted to the whelp's room, bare feet pounding on the stone floor. He found her bed empty, a smear of blood on her pillow. Snarling, he raced through the door and up the stairs, stepping out into chaos.

A whole swarm of the Silver Hand filled the hall, battling savagely with his comrades. Kodlak was amongst it, his great war hammer swinging through the intruders, breaking bones as it went. His face was hard and vicious, his fury like a wave of heat resounding from his heart.

Eyes quickly scanning the battle, Vilkas caught no sight of her. Sniffing, ears pricked for a trace of her heartbeat he found nothing – there was too much going on, too many hearts pounding around him. Panicking, he made for the kitchens, cutting through the bandits that stumbled into his path. He saw Athis struck, and swung his sword at the attacker, lopping off his head with one strike.

The kitchens were empty, and he cursed under his breath. He'd told her he would protect her, and again he'd failed. Leaving the kitchens, he turned the corner in time to see Kodlak, surrounded by five of the bastards, his war hammer lost in the confusion and his eyes beginning to bleed amber. He was trying to change, Vilkas realised, grasping just how desperate the old man must be. His limbs had just started to stretch when a stab of silver pierced his heart. The old man gasped, his eyes now their natural grey, and fell to the ground.

Something snapped within Vilkas as all thought left him and he pounded towards the stragglers with a roar. He cut down two by the time the others reached the door, and another as they raced into the night. Aela appeared beside him, nocking and loosing her bow. There was a muffled cry as one fell, an arrow lodged in his back. The last was quick, and joined the other survivors before disappearing into the dark streets. A crowd had appeared, murmured voices wondering what had happened. Vilkas ignored them, turning back inside to the slain man on the floor. He felt his sword fall from his limp hand. He was gone. Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, and the man he'd grown to love as a father was gone.

He barely looked up when Farkas entered the hall, bloodied but mainly unhurt.

"Kodlak," Vilkas managed. "The old man, he's…"

Realisation slowly leaked into his brother's eyes as he looked down to the body on the floor. He bowed his head, and lowered his sword.

"I… I couldn't find Dalla either."

With a start, he caught a trace of flowers and finally noticed her, standing in the shadow of his brother's bulk. Her face was grim, and there was a long cut running down her cheek but she was alive, and safe.

With a swiftness that surprised himself, his relief turned to fury. He had searched for her, thinking her dead or taken when this whole time the fool girl had been oblivious, with his brother of all people. He should have stayed to fight by Kodlak's side. His loyalty was to the Harbinger, and he should have given his own life before Kodlak fell, rather than chasing after a serving girl.

She reached out to him, her eyes filled with tears but he recoiled.

"Don't touch me!" he barked. "Where on bloody Nirn did you go? Stupid girl; you should've stayed in your godsdamned room!"

He knew he was being cruelly unfair, but once the rage grasped him it didn't let go. The wolf – long quiet but now awake – relished in it, howling to be released and participate. She took a few frightened steps away from him, her eyes wide and confused. Despite roiling with fury, he felt as guilty as if he had struck her. She moved back behind Farkas, which for reasons he couldn't comprehend in his current state only made him angrier. His brother frowned at him, one arm raised protectively between them. Rather than face the turmoil of his conflicting emotions, Vilkas stalked downstairs, dressing quickly and gathering supplies.

When he returned upstairs, Farkas was sitting beside Kodlak's body, his head bowed. Dalla stood beside him, her face red and wet with tears. Looking over the hall, he found the fragments of Wuuthrad gone. Clenching his fist, he made for the door.

"Where are you going?" Farkas asked, not looking at him.

"They made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad. I am going to reclaim them. There will be none left living to tell their stories – only songs of Jorrvaskr will be sung."

Dalla looked up with panicked eyes, a strangled yelp escaping her lips.

"No!" she cried, rushing forward to grasp his arm. "Please, after what happened to Skjor, you can't just-"

"Be quiet!" he spat, wrenching his arm from her hand. "Get back to the kitchens where you belong."

Twisting inside at the look of shocked hurt on her face, he stalked out into the night. He had no time to worry about her right now. He would bring the battle to the Silver Hand, and avenge Kodlak. They would know terror before the end.


	14. tenderness

_**AN: **I'm still alive! As always, I'm so sorry for the long break between chapters. I think that this will be a common occurrence for the foreseeable future unfortunately, but rest assured that I won't be abandoning this story. It might take me a little while, but I'm determined to finish it. I hope you all had a lovely Easter, and that you enjoy this chapter. I actually wrote it before properly starting this story, and it's one of my favourites so far :)  
_

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

_tenderness_

It was close to dawn by the time he staggered up the steps of Jorrvaskr, his feet unsteady and blood congealing down his front. The doors creaked in protest as he pushed them open. Dying coals emitted a soft glow from the fire pit, but his vision was blurred from the tears and blood in his eyes. He took a few steps before his feet failed him and he collapsed to his knees, grunting from the impact. He knelt there a moment, shame slowly covering him like a cloud, when a pair of arms entwined around his torso and hauled. The soft scent of wild flowers filled his nostrils, and he realised it was Dalla, trying in vain to lift him up. Hissing in pain, he got to his feet and let her guide him down to the living quarters. Her breath quickened as she struggled under his weight, but when he tried to move away and walk on his own her grip on his arm tightened.

Vilkas had barely lowered himself onto his own bed before Dalla was working at his armour, her deft fingers unbuckling and untying. With surprising speed she had his chest piece off. It fell to the ground with a clang - much to Vilkas' chagrin - but Dalla was already pulling at his undershirt, focused on the deep wound in his shoulder. She briskly left the room but was back within moments, a skin of water, pots of salve and a bundle of cloth in her arms. She offered him the skin, but instead he reached over her to the bottle of mead on his side table, pulling the cork with his teeth. He heard a distinct tut of disapproval from her, but she was already soaking a cloth with water from the skin. She tended to his wounds in silence, her brows drawn together in a frown. He couldn't help but notice that she wasn't being particularly gentle.

"You frightened me."

She was avoiding his eyes now, her gaze focused on the gash she was cleaning. Dark circles enveloped her eyes, and it was apparent she hadn't been sleeping well for some time. The already blood soaked cloth stung, but it didn't compare to the ripple of guilt that passed through his gut. He took a long swig of mead before answering.

"You're right," he said at last, his voice hoarse. "I should not have yelled at you like that. I allowed my grief to control me."

She finally looked at him, her eyes wide and incredulous. "Shouldn't have... yelled? You shouldn't have gone storming off by yourself! What if you never came back?"

A rare occurrence, Vilkas found himself at a loss for words. The thought had never occurred to him that he wouldn't return, he'd been so caught up in his grief and guilt. Once the last Silver Hand had fallen, and his blood no longer boiled with fury he had found himself full of shame. The whole, slow journey home he'd been dreading the look of fear he'd been sure he would see in her eyes. He'd spat at her with such unwarranted venom. But she hadn't been afraid of him. She had been afraid _for_ him.

"I- I thought I frightened you with my temper," he said lamely.

"Please," she scoffed, soaking a fresh cloth and turning back to his wound. "Your temper may be legendary throughout all of Whiterun, but your bark is much worse than your bite."

He found himself stunned, and couldn't help but smile. This small rabbit, scolding an erratic brute like himself. Her heart still thumped with that maddening pace, but more than ever she was starting to show her courage.

"Regardless, I apologise."

She smiled, but didn't answer. Her face was noticeably pinker as she began spreading salve from one of the jars over his skin, her touch now considerably more tender. Once she'd wrapped his shoulder, she turned her attention to his other hurts, cleaning and gently covering each and every cut with salve. The small scratches and bruises didn't really need much attention, but each time he tried to point this out to her she would shush him and continue. He wasn't fond of being fussed over, but tolerated it for her sake.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a healer," she said at last, leaning back, "but that should do for now. I can send Tilma in later to check on you, or the priestess from the Temple."

"It should be fine," he replied, wincing as he gently tested his shoulder. "You dress a wound well enough."

She frowned again as she looked at him. Taking the last clean cloth, she soaked it in water and moved to wipe the dirt and blood from his face. He caught her wrist gently, lowering her hand.

"You've fussed over me enough," he said softly, taking the cloth from her. Concern was apparent in her eyes, so he made the effort to clean his face himself. By the time he was done, the cloth was ruined; dirt, blood and war paint staining it. When he turned his eyes to her, she was looking at him differently.

"I've never seen you without your paint," she said with a small smile.

"I wouldn't get used to it."

He realised suddenly just how close she was, sitting beside him, and that he still held her wrist in his hand. Her pulse pattered against his fingers. Her heart was beating faster, and it took him a moment to realise that it wasn't fear increasing its tempo. Wondering how he could've missed them for so long, he noticed the light dusting of freckles across her nose, and caught the faint scent of snow berries on her breath. Holding her gaze, time seemed to slow, and he raised his hand to the back of her head as her lips lightly brushed against his. Pulling her closer, he could taste the tang of berries on her tongue. For this moment, at least, all his pain, grief and fury were forgotten.

She pulled away all too soon but remained close, her forehead braced against his. Her eyes closed contentedly as he touched her cheek, his fingers running down the softness of her skin. His other hand still held hers.

"You should get some rest," she said at last, leaning back and opening her eyes.

He knew she was right, but he didn't want to let her go. The weight of what he had done returned, and his entire body ached. Each cut was starting to sting, and his shoulder throbbed with pain; an indication that the salve was at work, but unpleasant nonetheless. Dalla stood, her hand slipping out of his and stooped to collect the dirty rags and empty salve pot. The half full skin she placed on his side table, and the look she shot his way told him that she expected him to drink it rather than more mead. Her cheeks were still flushed, and she waited for him to lie down before slowly stepping towards the door. Her eyes wandered over the bookshelves that lined the walls of his room. She lifted her free hand as she passed, running her fingers softly down their spines and paused in the doorway.

"Perhaps some nights you could teach me history rather than sword play," she said, turning to him with a playful smile.

Vilkas smiled in return. "I would like that very much."

"You could tell me the history of the Companions, or how Jorrvaskr was built. Or about Kodlak - is it really true that he faced off against forty Orc berserkers with Skjor?"

At the mention of Kodlak's name, Vilkas' smile faded and Dalla looked aghast.

"Oh! Why did I- I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"Don't be sorry," he said, cutting her off with a raised hand. "I... I'd be happy to tell you all I know of Kodlak's story. He was like a father to Farkas and I, and I think we'd both like to honour him with stories of his victories. Just... just not yet."

Dalla turned her eyes to the floor, and again Vilkas noticed how tired she looked. How little had she slept while he was gone?

"Try to get some sleep," she said softly, still looking downcast. "Someone will be back to check that wound later."

Then she was gone. Vilkas settled down and closed his eyes. He ached, both in body and in heart. Her scent lingered in the room, and the beast in his chest was fitful. Sleep came eventually, but as always it didn't come easily.


	15. leave-taking

_**AN: **Thank you as always for the kind reviews, favs and follows. It means so much to me that so many people are still invested in this story. Also, in case anyone was wondering, Dalla is a Nord. I've been meaning to include it somehow in the story, but the opportunity never really came._

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

_leave-taking_

He woke with a dull ache in his shoulder, his body stiff with fatigue. Though he longed to fall back into sleep's embrace and forget the events of the past few days – well, all but one, at least – he knew it would be fruitless to try. Instead he sat up, flexing his shoulder as he reached for the water skin on his table. He drained it in one long draught before leaving the room, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He found himself walking as if within a dream, his feet taking him to the familiarity of the Harbinger's rooms. It still smelt of the old man, strong and warm.

Pulling out his usual chair, he sunk into the seat wearily. All of Kodlak's books and papers were still scattered around him, a half drunk mug of ale on the table. The tomes Kodlak had collected varied; there were volumes on lycanthropy – including, he noted with a shudder, _Physicalities of Werewolves_ – as well as a battered old copy of _The Glenmoril Wyrd, _among others. His journal sat open in the middle of it all, pages covered in the Harbinger's cramped hand.

He didn't look up when Farkas entered the room, though he could smell his unease. They sat in silence for a long moment, each ensnared within their own thoughts and grief. Finally, Farkas spoke, breaking the silence.

"You okay?"

Vilkas shrugged, wincing at the throb of pain that shot through his shoulder. "It's a silver wound, so it'll take some time to heal properly."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know that's not what you meant," Vilkas sighed, looking up at his brother. "I- no. No, I'm not okay."

"Me either."

Another long silence passed, until again Farkas was the one to break it.

"Did Kodlak tell you about the head?"

"What?"

"The witch head. He sent me to the Glenmoril coven about a week ago now. Said it had something to do with the cure."

The cure? Kodlak had never told him anything. His annoyance at not being informed passed as the realisation settled in. Had Kodlak finally found a way to end their curse? Reaching over the table, he took Kodlak's journal and began to read.

* * *

They gathered at the Skyforge that evening, just as darkness settled over Whiterun. Kodlak's body, prepared by the priests of Arkay, lay on his pyre as if in sleep, his great war hammer by his side. Amongst the gathered Companions, the Jarl and his steward had come to pay their respects. There was silence for some time, before it was broken by the blacksmith.

"Who will start?"

"I'll do it," Aela replied, her face grim in the light of the torch she held. She took a deep breath, which shuddered out through her lips. "Before the ancient flame…"

"We grieve…" those gathered chanted together.

"At this loss…" Eorlund continued.

"We weep…"

Vilkas took a moment to find his voice. "For the fallen…"

"We shout."

"And for ourselves…" Farkas intoned.

"We take our leave."

Aela stepped towards the pyre, gazing at the old man before dropping her torch amongst the kindling. Within moments the pyre was ablaze, casting long shadows up the eagle's stone body. Vilkas watched his former Harbinger's body as it burned, smoke rising so high it blotted out the stars. His soul ached.

"His spirit is departed," Aela said, stepping back from the flames. "Members of the Circle, let us withdraw to the Underforge to grieve our last together."

Without another word she turned from the pyre and stalked down the stairs. Farkas bowed his head before following, his eyes pained. Vilkas sighed, glancing at Dalla, who stood beside Tilma. Her hands were clasped in front of her, bloodshot eyes watching the flames like a rabbit caught in the stare of a predator. Now was not the time to speak of what had passed between them, so he turned from the fire and made his way to the Underforge. He found Aela and Farkas waiting for him. Aela's face had hardened again; his brother just looked lost. Considering the two of them, and thinking back to what he'd done, he made the decision he'd been mulling over since Farkas' admission regarding the witches and reading Kodlak's journal. Something had to be done.

"The old man had one wish before he died," he said bluntly. "And he didn't get it."

Instantly he felt Aela stiffen, hackles raised. "Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas."

She was unrelenting. Still, after all that had happened, she chose the way of the beast.

"That's fine for you," he replied, unable to keep the chill from his voice. "But he wanted to be clean. He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovengarde. But all that was taken from him."

"And you avenged him," she replied impatiently.

Finally, Farkas spoke. "Kodlak did not care for vengeance."

"No, Farkas," Vilkas sighed, his heart aching. "He didn't. And that's not what this is about. We should be honouring Kodlak," he turned on Aela, meeting her cold gaze, "no matter our own thoughts on the blood."

A long moment passed between them, before finally Aela's face softened.

"You're right," she said at last, backing down. "It's what he wanted, and he deserved to have it."

Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. He gave her a satisfied nod before continuing. "Kodlak's notes speak of a way to cleanse his soul, even in death."

Aela's eyebrows rose.

"You know the legends of the tomb of Ysgramor."

"There the souls of the Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel." She scoffed. "We can't even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad, and it's in pieces, like it has been for a thousand years."

"And the elves once ruled Skyrim."

They all turned to find Eorlund, standing at the Underforge's entrance with his arms crossed and a large axe on his back.

"Just because something is, doesn't mean it must be. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are meant to be broken. And repaired."

Vilkas' eyes widened. "Is that? Did you repair the blade?"

The blacksmith stepped forward, drawing the ebony weapon.

"This is the first time I've had all the pieces. 'The flames of a hero can reforge the shattered.' The flames of Kodlak shall fuel the rebirth of Wuuthrad. And now it will take you to meet him once more. Prepare to journey to the tomb of Ysgramor. For Kodlak." He turned to Vilkas. "Here, boy. I think you should be the one to carry Wuuthrad."

Though his aching shoulder served as a cold reminder of what he'd done, he took the legendary axe from Eorlund. It felt heavy in his hands, as though weighed down by the lives it had taken when wielded by its master. He strapped it carefully to his back before following the others into the hall to prepare for their journey.

* * *

"Where are you going?"

He winced; he'd hoped to slip away with his shield-siblings unnoticed, but he had only made it a few steps from the hall. Turning, he faced Dalla at the door, her eyes red and her hair falling from its braid. Her mouth was a thin line across her round face.

"I won't be gone long," he replied, indicating for Aela and Farkas to go ahead. Aela shrugged, a sly smirk on her face before disappearing with Farkas into the dark.

"Your shoulder is not healed. You name me stupid, yet you go charging off time and again with no thought-"

"This is different," he said gently, swallowing the guilt that bubbled up his throat. "Aela and Farkas will be with me."

She looked unconvinced, a firm frown creasing her brow. For all her apparent timidness, she possessed at least the stubbornness of a true Nord.

"I need to do this," he replied quietly. "For Kodlak."

Her face softened, though her hand distractedly rose to grasp her tangled braid. He could sense the concern coming off her in waves, mingled with an echo of her previous fear. Slowly, her eyes moved to focus on the axe strapped to his back.

"Is that…?"

He nodded. "I promise you I'll be back."

Her expression didn't change, but he felt the tension slowly leaving her body, defeated. Her eyes dropped, and still frowning, she drew her arms around herself.

He longed to step forward, enfold her within his own arms and ease her fears. He longed to kiss her again, to draw out her sadness whilst forgetting his own. Instead, he turned and walked away, looking back once to find her still standing in front of the hall. She watched him go like a lone sentinel. She looked so small, wisps of hair waving in the evening breeze and her eyes dull, until he turned the corner and she disappeared from sight.


	16. release

_**AN:** Oh my goodness, I am so sorry for not updating in so long. Time seems to have gotten away from me, and I've been pretty unmotivated creatively lately. I've gotten a few new follows and favourites lately though, so thank you so much for those! I know I've been saying this every chapter, but I'm going to really try to update more often. A lot of the time I find it hardest to write in game quests and travelling, but I'm getting close to the real beginning of Dalla's story, which I'm pretty excited about, and hopefully this slightly longer chapter will make up for my absence.  
_

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

_release_

The dull thunk of metal on wood accompanied her laboured breath as she worked through her forms. Strike, step back, raise shield, parry. Step forward, strike, side step, strike again. She'd practised them so often they had become like second nature to her now. Though her arms ached she continued; she wasn't tired enough. The forms were monotonous enough to keep her head clear, and stepping through them over and again was the only thing keeping her mind off of him.

Daily chores had passed the time well enough, though still the absence of the Circle was felt by all. With fewer mouths to feed, Tilma needed less help in the evenings, so Dalla found herself restlessly wandering the hall, avoiding her bed and the inevitable sleepless hours it promised. Finally, with nothing else to do, she'd sunk into the familiar routine of practise in the yard.

Above her the stars sprawled across the sky, the twin moons looming and keeping watch. Her breath was fog in the chill air, though sweat dripped uncomfortably down her neck. Strike, duck, side step. Duck, raise shield, parry.

"You're out late,"

Startled out of her preoccupation, her grip on the sword faltered as she swung down, the strike missing the dummy and instead biting into the dirt. Regaining her balance, she turned to find Ria, an apologetic smile spread across her face.

"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly.

"It's fine," Dalla replied, averting her eyes and fussing with her skirts.

"He's been training you well," Ria said brightly. "Though, I'd expect as much, from him."

Dalla stopped smoothing the fabric of her dress, her fingers reaching for her braid instead. Ria seemed not to notice. He'd been gone for over a week now.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, before being broken by Ria.

"I would've given anything to have him look at me the way he looks at you."

At these words, Dalla's eyes darted up from the sword still propped in the ground to meet Ria's. Mouth open, she was at a loss of what to say.

"I'm sure you already know, but new bloods are assigned a member of the Circle as a sort of mentor, to take us under their wing as we're learning the ropes. Vilkas was mine. When I first came here, I thought him the most amazing man I'd ever met."

She paused, seemingly lost in thought, and as Dalla stared at her, it became suddenly apparent how different the two women were. Where Ria was dark in skin and hair, Dalla was light. Where Ria was lean and muscled, Dalla – despite her training – was plump and soft. The older woman's features were sharp and delicate while Dalla had always been snub nosed and baby faced. The comparison turned her stomach. It made her feel inadequate.

Ria looked up, seeming to finally notice Dalla's silence.

"Oh," she said as if in surprise, before suddenly laughing, though not unkindly. "He thought me the most infuriating recruit. Probably still does," she added with another laugh. "You've nothing to worry about regarding me. I did say 'would have' after all."

With a pang of guilt, Dalla felt herself relaxing. She couldn't help but berate herself inwardly for the unwarranted reaction – Ria had never meant her harm before.

"Once," she finally spoke up, her cheeks warming, "I would have given anything to be a Companion like you."

"Once?" Ria asked with a quirked brow.

Dalla frowned. "I have seen enough bloodshed, I think. The truth is, I am a coward. I can hold a sword, I can step through the forms – I can even parry most of Vilkas' strikes on a good day, though I'm certain he is as gentle on me as he can be. But… the moment it's real, the moment I'm up against a real opponent, I – my stomach turns to water and I can't move. When the Silver Hand attacked – if Farkas had not, I… I'm not a warrior. I will never be a warrior. I don't know why he wastes his time."

Empathy crept into the Imperial's eyes as she listened, and Dalla found a sense of relief in finally voicing her thoughts. Implications were left unsaid, yet Ria seemed to understand.

"Well," she said after a moment. "Maybe he doesn't want a warrior. Gods know that none of us have ever caught his eye."

"Still, I-"

"You doubt yourself too much. There are different types of strength, other than brute force. Vilkas is a smart man, and I think he sees you better than you see yourself."

Smiling again, she turned and left a dumbstruck Dalla alone in the night. A few long moments later, the dull thunk of metal on wood sounded again. Only this time it did nothing to tame her thoughts.

* * *

The journey north was long and cold, the biting wind growing more cold the further they went. Most of their time was passed in silence, and Aela spent more time scouting ahead than she did by the brothers' sides. Each time she returned she brought the fruits of her hunt, which provided dinner for the three of them when they rested for the night.

They covered a decent amount of distance each day, though Aela begrudged the brothers' refusal to transform, muttering under her breath that they would be much swifter as beasts.

"No one's stopping you from going on ahead," Vilkas growled irritably on the third evening, his patience wearing thin.

Aela scowled over her meal. "What would be the point? I need Wuuthrad to open the tomb, and I doubt you would hand it over."

"No," he agreed. "But at least Farkas and I would get a rest from your godsdamned complaining."

"Don't drag me into this," Farkas piped up, causing Aela to roll her eyes.

Vilkas didn't reply, turning back to his supper instead. The tension lingered into the night, and they hadn't lay down to sleep longer than a half hour when Aela slipped off into the dark. He rolled over in his bedroll to find his brother's open eyes glinting from across the dying fire.

"She's not going to come around, is she?"

"No," Vilkas replied, sighing.

Farkas' eyes flooded with concern; he reeked of it. Vilkas knew full well what was bothering him. They were a family. They'd always been a family, and family stuck together. With Kodlak and Skjor gone, they were all that was left. Farkas had believed they should all abstain together, right from the start, but had ultimately failed to convince his shield-sister.

"I don't want us to lose her," Farkas said at last.

"I know, brother. I know."

* * *

On the fifth day they finally spotted the looming mass of the tomb in the distance, half shrouded in fog. It was a small island just off the coast, surrounded by the icy waters of the Sea of Ghosts. Legends spoke of a tomb Ysgramor had had built for himself somewhere beneath Windhelm, Vilkas recalled, but had instead chosen to be buried facing his homeland across the Sea, Atmora. _Would have been much easier to get to if he'd chosen Windhelm,_ Vilkas thought bitterly. He pulled his furs closer around himself; the cold had been wreaking havoc on his shoulder, biting deep into the aching wound.

The falling snow swirled on the breeze, circling the trio as they made their way down to the chill, grey beach. Pebbles crunched beneath their feet as they reached the water's edge. Though it was shallow along the coast, the Sea was deathly cold; not even Aela was willing to chance swimming across. It took them most of the afternoon, but they managed to eventually pick their way across a precarious bridge of ice. They found themselves standing outside the ancient iron doors of the tomb just as the sun began to set behind them.

With a deep breath, the brothers each braced themselves against a door before pushing them open, the hinges groaning loudly in protest. All three stepped through into the gloom, greeted by an enormous ebon statue of Ysgramor himself. His outstretched arms were empty. Aela, now holding a torch from her pack, peered up into the statue's stern face.

"This is the resting place of Ysgramor, and his most trusted generals," Vilkas said, breaking the silence. "We should be cautious."

Aela snorted, raising her brows at him.

"The finest warriors rest with Ysgramor," he continued, ignoring her disdain. "You'll have to prove yourselves to them. It's not that we're intruding, I'd wager they've actually expected us."

"I'm ready for any test they care to provide," Aela replied, drawing her long dagger.

Vilkas stepped forward, drawing Wuuthrad from the straps on his back. His shoulder throbbed as he lifted the great axe and placed it carefully in Ysgramor's waiting hands. Behind the statue, a stone door slowly rose to reveal a tunnel thick with cobwebs. Farkas swallowed nervously. The air in the tunnel was even colder, and a subtle presence prickled at his nose when he drew breath.

"They just want to be sure that you're worthy. Be ready for an honourable battle."

Aela stepped towards the tunnel impatiently, but Farkas only made it as far as Vilkas' side.

"You're not coming."

It wasn't a question.

Vilkas turned to Farkas with a sigh, placing one hand on his brother's shoulder. How could he ever understand?

"Kodlak was right. I let vengeance rule my heart. I regret nothing of what I did at Driftshade. But I can't go any further with my mind fogged or my heart grieved."

Farkas didn't move at first, his eyes searching his brother's face for what, Vilkas couldn't tell. At last he seemed to find it, nodding briefly before turning towards the tunnel. Vilkas was surprised to find Aela still standing there, her expression soft. It lasted only a moment, before both she and his brother disappeared down the tunnel.

Alone, Vilkas sat at Ysgramor's feet, and covered his face with his hands. The guilt was still heavy in his heart, and he'd known from the moment he first set eyes on the island that he wouldn't enter the tomb himself. His place wasn't among Ysgramor's finest, not in the state he was now.

Time stretched on, and he found his thoughts slowly turning to Dalla, though he tried in vain to stamp them out. Now was not the time to think of her, as it only increased his feelings of guilt. Unable to fight his own mind, he attempted instead to grasp the scent of the dried flowers she kept in her apron pocket, the softness of the skin of her cheek. Instead, all he could think of was the look in her eye as he walked away from her.

He was startled out of his thoughts at the sound of footsteps, and he turned to find Farkas emerging from the tunnel. His face was pale.

"Where's Aela?" Vilkas asked quickly, frowning.

"She went on ahead. I couldn't… the spiders."

A nagging sense told him there was more to it, but since his brother didn't look in any state to elaborate, he left his suspicion unspoken.

The pair sat in silence, neither feeling the need to talk but both sensing the unease of the other. Vilkas was ashamed to admit even to himself that he had doubts; Aela seemed to understand how much the old man had wanted to be released from the beast blood, but he still wished Farkas had remained with her to ensure the deed was done.

His doubts were eased before long, however, when Aela stepped into the room. Her war paint was streaked with tears, and a long cut dripped blood down her arm.

"It is done," she said softly, tossing Farkas the empty bag that had contained the witch's head. It still reeked of blood and dark magic, causing Vilkas to shift uncomfortably. He stood, and briefly clasped the fingers of Aela's hand in thanks. To his surprise, rather than pull away she slipped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. He held her until she no longer shook with sobs, and when she finally drew away, she wiped away her tears with a small smile.

"Kodlak's wolf spirit is no more."

"It must've been hard on you," Farkas said, as Aela gripped him in a swift embrace.

"It's what he wanted," she sighed.

"We should head back," Vilkas said, thinking of home.

"Eventually," Aela said, looking up at the brothers. "But this... this is the Tomb of Ysgramor. I think I'm just going to... commune for a bit. This place is worthy of some time." She paused, seeming to sense Vilkas' desire to leave. "You both go on ahead. I'll see you back home."

Farkas turned to Vilkas, who merely shrugged. Though he looked back at her over his shoulder, as always Farkas followed, and the two brothers turned homewards.


	17. a dance beneath the stars

_**AN: **I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoy writing this, it really is a guilty pleasure. Hopefully this means I'll be writing and updating a lot more. Also, I have to apologise: I'm a dunce and didn't realise I could respond to reviews. I'm so sorry for not replying to any of them, I'll make sure to at least reply to some from now on. As always, hope you enjoy and thank you for sticking with my story so far_

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

_a dance beneath the stars_

It was in the dead of night that the brothers wearily climbed the steps to Jorrvaskr, the wooden doors creaking softly as they pushed them open. The great fire was burning low, casting shadows across Torvar, who sat slumped over the table. He was snoring loudly, with his fingers wrapped around the tankard beside his head. They passed him quietly, Farkas stifling a chuckle. Down in the recruit's quarters, Vilkas paused. Dalla slept fitfully, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Her hair pooled around her head, undone from its usual braid. Farkas shot him a knowing smile, before continuing on to his room. After a moment Vilkas followed, turning to his own quarters. Too tired to wash, he stripped down to his breeches before settling into bed with a sigh.

The next morning they were greeted with enthusiasm by their comrades, a raucous cheer sounding through the hall. Dalla was just at the door, an empty basket on her arm as she turned at the noise. When her eyes met his, a relieved smile spread across her face. Before he had a chance to step towards her however, he was barraged with questions, mainly why Aela hadn't returned with them. When he'd finally satisfied everyone with his answers, he looked to the door only to find her gone.

The next few days passed in a torturous form of limbo. He had been kept busy reorganising leadership within the Circle. Neither of the brothers, nor Aela when she finally returned seemed willing to take on the Harbinger's role, so the work had been shared amongst them all. Finances needed to be recorded, calculated and doled out, jobs needed to be assigned and responses sent to the requester. Farkas didn't possess the mind for numbers or figures, and Aela still disappeared as she pleased, so the majority of the work fell to Vilkas. All in all, it was exhausting, and he found himself wondering how Kodlak had managed the bulk of it alone. Sitting up late into the night, budgeting the weeks wages of coin, he found himself rubbing his eyes with fatigue more than anything. His shoulder was still slow to heal.

Dalla had been preoccupied as well, with Tilma seemingly attempting to work the girl to death. Most days she was being sent all over Whiterun on small errands, and her time within the hall was spent cooking and cleaning.

Despite trying to occupy it elsewhere, Vilkas' mind constantly returned to dwell on her and the kiss they had shared, his skin growing warm at the memory. Though he was loath to admit it, he found himself uncharacteristically shy, unable to approach her or voice his questions in the fleeting moments they were alone. Neither had they trained since his return. The few nights he found the time to wait in the yard after dark, the beast sniffing hopefully at the air, she had not appeared.

His frustration only increased the night Farkas brought a travelling bard home from The Bannered Mare, already well into his cups. The bard was talented enough, striking up a jovial tune on her lute that soon had a few of the Companions dancing. Ria smiled widely as Athis took her hand, and Torvar slopped ale down his front as he attempted a jig. Vilkas sat to one side with Aela, his seventh tankard of the night grasped in one hand. His ears pricked as Dalla emerged from the kitchens, a platter of fresh boiled crème tarts in her hands. She weaved around the dancing warriors, heading for the tables when Farkas stopped her, insisting on a dance.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of dancer," she laughed, Vilkas barely able to hear her over the din.

"Don't be stupid!" Farkas replied, taking the platter from her and shoving it towards Vignar, who had been heading for his room, muttering about the noise. The old man spluttered indignantly, but Farkas was already pulling Dalla over to the others to dance. Vilkas watched with eyes narrowed, his bitterness getting the best of him, aided by the ale in his belly. He was not one for dancing, though Farkas was always quick to point out its similarities to a fighter's footwork. Despite his brother's bulk, he was surprisingly light on his feet, and – even drunk – had always been a good dancer.

Trying in vain to keep his growing temper in check, he shifted uncomfortably as Farkas put his hands around Dalla's waist, lifting and spinning her around. Her gasp of surprise quickly turned to laughter.

"Why don't you quit your brooding and just ask her to dance?"

Vilkas started; he'd completely forgotten that Aela sat beside him.

"I don't dance," he replied stiffly.

"Well your brother does, and she seems to be enjoying herself. Ice-brain might actually steal her away from you if you're not careful."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh please. She reeked of you the night you came back from Driftshade, and unless you've taken to stuffing your pockets with wild flowers, I could smell her all over _you_."

"It's not like that," he growled, his face growing hot.

"No?" she replied, smirking. She was enjoying herself immensely, her eyes glinting mischievously. It only fed his temper. "Too bad for you then."

Rather than reply, he got to his feet and left the hall fuming. He felt ridiculous for being so fuelled by jealousy, which in turn only made him angrier. Outside, the cool air did nothing to calm him. Clenching his hands, he took up a sword and shield from the rack and unleashed his pent up rage on a training dummy.

Time passed, but his frustration didn't, and he was dripping with sweat when he heard the doors open behind him. The scent of flowers met his nose, though it was almost smothered by his brother's musk. She waited, but he didn't turn to look at her.

"Why are you upset?" she said at last.

"I'm not upset," he replied, giving the dummy a sharp smack with his shield.

"Liar," she muttered under her breath, apparently unaware that he heard her as clearly as though she'd whispered in his ear.

He finally turned to face her, raising his shield.

"Take up arms," he barked.

She stared at him. "What?"

"Take up arms," he repeated, rapping the fist holding his sword against the shield. "Show me what you've learned."

She looked at him a moment longer, her eyes narrowed, before stepping off the patio to the weapons rack and retrieving the sword and shield she'd been using for practise. He gave her only a few seconds to correct her grip before swinging at her. Caught by surprise, she ducked clumsily to the side, nearly dropping her sword.

"You need to be faster."

"You didn't give me time to-"

"When you're fighting for your life, your enemy isn't going to give you time."

He swung again, just as she opened her mouth to retort, though this time she raised her shield in time, angling it so the weight of his strike sent his sword sliding away from her.

"Better."

They circled each other, exchanging blows, ducking and weaving and finally he felt his anger melting away. His body loosened from the tension he hadn't realised was clenching him. The simple joy of sharing the dance of battle with her – and it _was_ a dance, he realised, tracing each other's steps – lightened the load he'd been carrying since Kodlak's death. She had improved – when she applied herself – and though she panted with the effort of avoiding his strikes, there was a fire burning in her eyes he hadn't seen before.

When she blocked a blow, sending the tip of his blade skywards and followed it with a quick strike of her own he found himself laughing.

"Much better!" he cried, raising his shield to stop her sword. Small sparks of friction sputtered between the weapons. Her jaw set, she swung again, but this time Vilkas stepped to the side, and she stumbled past. Unable to resist, he turned and tapped her lightly across the rump with the flat of his blade. When she turned to regain her balance, she flashed him a startled look, her face a brilliant shade of red.

"You should yield," he teased.

She seemed frustrated now, her strikes growing clumsier and less precise. He dodged and blocked each of her attacks, sending her reeling past him when he grasped her arm and used her own momentum against her. Her face was still burning when she stared at him for a moment before dropping her shield and running at him. He tutted inwardly. A full charge was plenty effective if you had the weight to put behind it, but it was also the easiest to deflect. She came at him with her sword clenched in both hands, and he swung his shield upwards just as she threw her blade to the side. A moment of blind panic as he stepped back in a vain attempt to stop the shield colliding with her face when she suddenly ducked, diving into him and knocking him off his feet. He hit the ground with a grunt – winded – and Dalla now straddling his stomach, her eyes shining with mirth.

"Do you yield?" she asked smugly, a grin tugging at her mouth.

He returned her smile, before jolting her forward with a jerk of his hips, hooking one of her arms and rolling her over in one swift motion. She yelped in surprise, now pinned to the ground beneath him.

"Do _you_ yield?"

She let out a laugh, her chest heaving with each panting breath. He looked at her, admiring the messy halo of honey coloured hair that framed her flushed face. The stars above them reflected in her grey eyes, and in that moment he saw her as truly beautiful. Before he could think, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.


	18. yield to each other

**_AN: _**_So, uh... this is my first time writing this kind of scene. I wish I could say I handled it like an adult, but I was blushing pretty much the whole time I wrote it aha. Constructive criticism is most definitely welcome here, please let me know if I'm doing this right or not. For those who aren't into this sort of thing, apologies in advance. This chapter is smutty, you have been warned. For everyone else, hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

_yield to each other_

With a start he pulled away, realising they were still lying on the ground in the yard. Breathless, Dalla's eyes fluttered open, still glinting with stars. Vilkas got to his feet, pulling her up with him. Hesitantly, he took a step towards the hall, still grasping her hand. She followed, tightening her grip.

Inside the hall was empty, everyone having retired to bed. They passed silently down the stairs and through to Vilkas' room. Safe behind the closed door, he approached her slowly, leaning down to kiss her gently again, his fingers stroking her throat. The beast stirred as he touched her, salivating and longing to take control and ravish her. He restrained it, however; he wanted to show her the man, not the monster.

She pressed herself against him, rising on her toes to slip her arms around his neck. She was gentle with her touch, her hands trembling lightly. When he reached for the cords of her blouse she turned around, sweeping her hair forward over one shoulder. Carefully he unlaced it, running his hands down the bare skin of her shoulders as he slipped off both blouse and the shift underneath. When she turned to face him again wearing nothing but her skirts, her head was down, quivering arms covering her chest. He panicked then, fearing he was doing something wrong. Gently he touched his fingers to her chin, tilting her head up to look at him. She was blushing furiously.

"Are you…?"

"I'm okay," she replied quickly with a nervous smile. "It – it's just been some time since…"

She swallowed, and he stepped back, silently cursing himself. Had he been too brash?

"I'm sorry, we don't have to-"

"No," she said, stepping towards him. "I'm just a little shy," she admitted, still pink faced.

Slowly, she lifted her arms to his neck again, revealing her small breasts. When he hesitated – still unsure – she took his hand, bringing it up to cup one breast. Her flesh was warm beneath his palm, her nipple growing firm at the caress of his thumb. Her heart racing, she fumbled at the straps of his armour, and he pulled his undershirt over his head. Sliding his hands around her waist, he hoisted her up onto his waist. Her breasts pressed to his bare chest, he felt a long shiver down his spine as he carried her to his bed. Catching the dizzying sent of her arousal, he dropped her onto his furs and nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, tasting her salt skin.

His hands explored the plump curves of her body. She was deliciously soft, even more so now that her nerves had begun to melt away, her hands wandering across his skin. He felt himself straining against his breeches as he untied her skirts, pulling them with her thick stockings down over her generous hips. Now completely exposed, the last traces of her reserve disappeared as she looked at him with amorous eyes. He leaned forward to kiss her softly again before continuing his exploration of her body. He coaxed and caressed, starting in the hollow of her neck, then gentling nipping along her collarbone and down her stomach. Her breath quickened, goose bumps breaking out on her skin.

Slowly he moved downwards, taking note of how she trembled most when his lips brushed against the soft flesh of her inner thigh. When he reached the warmth between her legs he kissed her. Her breath hitched, and she sat up.

"Why are you-?"

"Shhh," he purred against her skin. "Just trust me."

When he resumed she gasped, sinking back into the furs with her hands clenched into them. Deliberately, slowly, he dragged the flat of his tongue between her lower lips. She writhed, but he grasped her hips and buried his face deeper into her. His pace increased as she panted, tracing circles with his tongue before closing his lips over the sweet spot above her entrance.

Her pounding heart and breathy whimpers resonated in his head, while her satisfying aroma filled his nose. She squirmed beneath him, her eyes squeezed shut until at last her back arched and with a jolt of her hips she cried out, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Still panting, another shiver passed through her as he kissed her thigh again, his teeth lightly grazing against her skin. A smirk tugged at his lips as he crawled up to her.

"Was that okay?"

She replied by pulling him down to meet her mouth, the kiss deepening as her fingers dug into his back. Her hips rose to grind against his groin, drawing a low moan from his throat. He wasted no time pulling down his breeches with her help, pressing himself against her as she planted kisses along his jaw. Unable to resist any longer, he pulled her closer and drove himself inside.

"Gods," she hissed, angling her hips to better receive him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her neck, but now she was rocking in time to his thrusts, and it felt so sweet to be inside, her nails scraping down his back. It had been far too long since he'd last bedded a woman, and even longer since he'd actually felt something while doing it.

The beast wailed at the sound of her moans, and though he kept it at bay his heart pounded with excitement at her pleasure. A bestial growl escaped his lips as he drove himself harder, caught up in the throes of passion. He was momentarily afraid he would hurt her, but she responded to his increased fervour by clutching him tighter. He leaned forward to kiss her again, his tongue running over her lips until they parted, and he caught the lower between his teeth. He reached one hand to touch her face, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw up to her ear, before combing them through her hair, massaging her scalp with his fingertips. He felt the shiver pass down her neck, and all too soon he was undone.

He finished suddenly with a strong thrust and a husky groan, beyond caring if anyone heard, because he was hers and she was his and that was all that mattered.

When he came back to himself, they were a tangle of limbs, breathing heavily and their bodies' slick with sweat. Thoroughly embarrassed by finishing so quickly, he avoided her eyes and withdrew, stuttering an apology. She sat up quickly, reaching for his hand.

"Hush," she murmured, placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. "Don't apologise. That was… beautiful."

He finally looked at her, saw the sincerity in her heavy-lidded eyes.

"It's been some time for me as well," he admitted.

She smiled, and finally he felt his face cool.

"I've never been kissed down- well…" she trailed off.

"It was enjoyable though?"

She blushed pink again. "It, it was… yes." She looked up at him. "Is it… is it a beast blood thing?"

He laughed softly, settling himself beneath the furs and reaching for her. She bit her lip, clearly embarrassed, but followed and nestled into the crook of his arm, her skin warm and her heart pattering against his side.

"It has nothing to do with the beast blood. It's a human thing."

"Oh."

"Whoever's touched you before obviously didn't know what they were doing," he muttered.

She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "You almost sound jealous."

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied gruffly, slightly alarmed that she'd picked up on it so easily. The thought of another being with her, as they were now turned his stomach.

"He was a stable boy," she said after a long moment. "And I don't think either of us knew what we were doing."

Despite his better judgement, he voiced the question now vexing his mind. "What happened to him?"

It was her turn to laugh. "See? You _are_ jealous. You've no need to worry. He left on his father's best horse one night, saying he was going to find his fortune in the world. I hope he did."

Vilkas frowned. "Do you miss him?"

"No," she replied, snuggling closer. "He was a good friend, but I didn't love him."

"Where do you think he-"

"Hush now," she said, placing a finger to his lips. "It doesn't matter anymore."

She kissed him softly, reassuringly, and all thoughts of her stable boy fled his mind. When she settled beside him again, she ran her hand over his skin, her fingers following the map of scars across his chest and pausing at each one to ask the story behind it.

"And this one?" she yawned, lazily tracing one finger across his hip.

It wasn't until he'd finished a lengthy (and only slightly exaggerated) retelling of the time he and Farkas had stumbled into a sacred grove by accident, the resident Spriggan effectively expressing its displeasure at their intrusion, that he realised she had fallen asleep.

* * *

Upon waking the next morning, he found Dalla gone, though the spot beside him was still warm. Though slightly disappointed, he figured she must have started her chores for the day. Tilma had always been an awfully early riser, though considering that breakfast needed to be prepared and the bath waters heated, Vilkas supposed it was necessary.

He savoured the warmth of his bed and thoughts of the previous night for a time before finally rising and dressing. As he'd thought, Dalla was already at work in the kitchens with Tilma. When she brought out a steaming platter of fresh bacon, sausages and eggs, she gave him a coy smile, her hand brushing against his arm as she set the platter on the table.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by Aela, who sat herself next to him and eagerly reached for the food as Dalla returned to the kitchen.

"Not like that, huh?" she taunted around a mouthful of bacon.

"Oh, shut up," he replied, not even annoyed as he helped himself to a bit of everything.

She only laughed in response.


	19. summoning

_**AN: **Apologies as always for the delay, I've recently moved so everything is still a bit disorganised. Hopefully this extra long chapter will help make up for it, along with the fact that we're finally getting into the bulk of this story._

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

_summoning_

The season changed, harsh winds from the mountains bringing a colder chill to Whiterun. The barren branches of the Gildergreen, the once magnificent holy tree of Kynareth, seemed even starker against the grey sky. It never grew as cold as the far north, but winter was still felt in the air. Despite this, not much changed in the city. Eorland could still be found at the Skyforge, working the bellows with sweat dripping from his brow, and the markets in the Plains District continued as always, merchants peddling their wares.

The mead hall remained comfortably warm inside. The fire pit was kept stoked at all hours, and the tantalising smells of roasted meat and baked pastries wafted from the kitchens. Farkas – as per usual during the colder months – spent more of his time sleeping in a self-induced hibernation, as Njada called it, waking late in the mornings only to instantly gorge on breakfast. They would all watch in amusement as he shovelled down enough food for three men, washing it all down with a gulp of ale. Not for the first time, Vilkas found himself wondering whether his brother was actually a werebear in disguise.

Though the cold barely bothered him, Dalla seemed rather reluctant to continue training after dark, so most nights they remained indoors. True to his word, he began teaching her history, recounting all he knew of the topics she showed interest in. He told her stories of Ysgramor and his five hundred companions, tales he'd heard from Kodlak about his earlier adventures with Jergen – though they were admittedly, a somewhat tender subject for more than one reason. He even went into greater detail regarding his and Farkas' history; growing up in the mead hall, passing their tests to become true Companions and the misadventures they'd had since.

"Tell me more about Jergen. Please?"

It was cold and late, though they were warm enough with the many furs around them. Wavering candlelight cast a dim glow over his room.

"I've told you pretty much all there is to tell," Vilkas replied with a laugh. "Why are you so interested in him?"

"I like hearing about your family."

His smile faded, a frown taking its place. Seeing his expression, Dalla looked confused.

"What's wrong?"

"Jergen was many things, but despite what Farkas tells you, he wasn't our father."

Her eyebrows rose. "Oh, I thought… then who?"

Unbidden, long suppressed memories threatened to resurface. If he closed his eyes, he'd be able to see the bars of the cage around him. The ghost of an acrid stench stung his nostrils, nearly bringing tears to his eyes.

"I don't-" He paused, finding himself unable to lie. "He brought us here, to Jorrvaskr, but he left us behind when he joined the war. Kodlak was the closest I ever had to a father."

A sad smile spread across her face, a look of understanding in her eyes. She dropped the matter, taking his hand in her own.

"I never knew my da," she said simply.

He glanced at her, taken aback. It wasn't the fact she'd grown up without a father – a common occurrence, really – but that for the first time, she'd offered a small piece of her life before coming to Jorrvaskr. She settled herself against him, and as she didn't elaborate he didn't ask, instead savouring the fragment he'd been given.

"Would you read me more from _Songs of the Return_?"

"Of course," he replied, reaching over her to the stack of books resting beside his bed. "Where did we leave off last time?"

Though she was eager to learn, more often than not their evenings would end like this, with her curled by his side and her head resting on his chest, lulled to sleep by the rumble of his voice as he read to her late into the night.

* * *

The moment Tilma left the hall, armed with a broom to sweep the patio outside, Vilkas slipped into the kitchens. Dalla looked up as he entered, one eyebrow raised. She was rolling out a large sheet of pastry, her hands dusted with flour.

"I wouldn't let Tilma catch me in here if I were you."

"Tilma happens to be preoccupied with more pressing matters," he replied, slipping a slice of apple from the chopping board beside her and into his mouth.

"You'd be surprised how quickly she gets through the sweeping," Dalla laughed, batting away his hand as he reached for another slice.

"I suppose I'll just have to be quicker then," he said, stepping behind her and sliding one hand around her waist. The other reached past her to grasp the plate of fresh sweet rolls she had baked earlier. Planting a quick kiss on her cheek, he darted away, leaving her momentarily confused. Once he'd escaped the kitchens, she realised what he'd gotten away with.

"_Vilkas!_"

She pursued him with eyes narrowed but a smile tugging at her lips, and he couldn't help but laugh. He held the plate up just out of her reach, side stepping each of her attempts to grasp his arm.

"Farkas!" he called to his brother, who was sitting at the table with a mug of ale. Dalla was now attempting to hook his foot and trip him. "Care to help?"

Farkas laughed, shaking his head. "You're on your own, brother."

Before long they were both brushed with flour, Farkas guffawing as he watched the pair struggle. Holding the plate high over Dalla's head, Vilkas had just grasped a sweet roll and was taking slow, methodical bites when there came a hurried rap at the door, followed by a dishevelled courier.

The man's tight-lipped manner instantly put Vilkas on guard. He finally lowered the plate to Dalla, who took it and stepped back quickly, her face pink. Stepping forward, Vilkas held out his hand expectantly. There was a note grasped in the courier's hand, but he remained still. His eyes darted between Vilkas and Dalla.

"Well, hand it over," Vilkas snapped impatiently.

"I've been told to deliver this directly to the recipient," the man said, clearly uncomfortable.

Vilkas sighed, annoyed. "The Harbinger passed some time ago."

"This isn't for the Harbinger. It's for the serving girl."

Instantly Vilkas turned to Dalla, his brow furrowed. For her? She had frozen in the act of wiping the flour from her sleeves, her eyes confused. She glanced once at Vilkas before stepping forward, accepting the note from the courier's hand. He nodded once to her before turning and leaving the way he came. She stared for a moment at the doors he'd passed through, before opening the note and beginning to read.

At first whatever was written on the page only made her frown, but before long her eyes widened and the colour left her face. When she looked up, the parchment trembled in her grip.

"I- I've been summoned by the Jarl."

He opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to speak she had straightened her skirts and walked past him, out the door. He shared a concerned look with Farkas before following. Outside, he saw her already heading for the Cloud District, her arms wrapped around herself.

"What does the Jarl want with you?" he called after her, jogging to catch up.

When she didn't answer, he caught her arm. "Dalla?"

She turned to face him, but avoided his eyes.

"It's – I'd rather… I don't know. I just have to go. He urged haste, can we talk about it later?"

He frowned, a niggling sense telling him that she knew full well what this was about, but let her go. She gave him a grateful smile before continuing on to the looming mass of Dragonsreach. Still frowning, he followed, falling into step beside her. She glanced at him sideways, but didn't protest his company. Her heart was jittering in her chest.

As they neared the top of the great stone steps leading to the Jarl's keep she grew fidgety, fussing nervously with her skirts and her braid. When she'd smoothed her apron for the fourth time, he reached for her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. Her heart still raced, but when he let her go she clasped her hands in front of her.

Inside, the cavernous hall was impressive, it's finely carved rafters supporting the high ceiling. White and gold banners bearing the horse sigil of Whiterun hung from the beams. Vilkas had entered the hall many times in the past, most often to collect payment from the Jarl's pompous Imperial steward. Dalla looked around her with wide eyes, though Vilkas got the feeling that she wasn't truly seeing anything around her.

Ahead of them, in the main hall beyond the reception room was a large fire pit, flanked by two long tables covered in shining silverware. Three children sat together at one table, snacking on sweet rolls and watching them approach with little interest.

"More wanderers," muttered one of the boys, so low that Vilkas barely heard him, "here to lick father's boots."

Vilkas scowled irritably, but the child didn't notice, and before long his attention was drawn to the Jarl. Balgruuf the Greater sat reclined in his throne, surrounded by a number of his court. Both his housecarl, a steely Dunmer woman, and the court mage, a man hidden within his robes, gave off the subtle stench of magic, causing Vilkas' lip to curl.

The Jarl was listening to a guard standing in front of him, who was clearly perturbed. Though Balgruuf gave off the appearance of calm nonchalance, Vilkas could sense his unease, and the alert gleam in his eyes. Dalla didn't appear to have noticed, her eyes transfixed on the great dragon's skull hung above the throne.

"What did it do?" Balgruuf was asking the guard. "Is it attacking the watchtower?"

"No, my lord," the guard answered. He was breathing fast, his hands shaking. "It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life… I thought it would come after me for sure."

The Jarl leaned forward in his seat. "Good work, son," he said with surprising warmth. "We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it."

"Thank you, my lord," the guard replied gratefully, and left the hall.

Balgruuf turned to his housecarl. "Irileth, you'd better gather the guardsmen and get down there soon."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate," she replied briskly. She had keen, calculating eyes, which appraised Vilkas for a moment before resting on Dalla.

"Good," Balgruuf said softly. "Don't fail me."

He followed Irileth's gaze, finally noticing Dalla. A concerned frown creased his brow.

"Ah. What was your name again, girl?"

She started, quickly dropping into a curtsy.

"It's Dalla, my Jarl."

"Dalla. It's good to see you've settled."

Vilkas shot her a questioning look, but it went unnoticed. She was watching the Jarl with apprehension in her eyes. Balgruuf turned his eyes quickly to Vilkas, nodding in acknowledgement, before addressing Dalla again.

"There's no time to stand on ceremony, girl. I regret summoning you, but I require your aid. In case you haven't heard, a dragon has been at the western watchtower."

She opened her mouth, but no sound came from her lips. Vilkas looked between Dalla and the Jarl incredulously. Dragons? And even more shocking, the Jarl wanted her help to deal with it? Surely this was some kind of cruel joke.

When Dalla still didn't reply, Balgruuf continued. "I know this is asking much, but you survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."

Helgen. Vilkas had heard the rumours of Helgen, but had been too sceptical to believe a dragon of all things had caused its downfall. Dragons were for children's stories, not seen in Skyrim for hundreds of years. To hear now, that the rumours had been true, and Dalla of all people had suffered it first-hand. Suddenly pieces began falling into place, and he thought of when she'd first arrived at the hall, terrified. He had been arrogant enough to believe it was himself and the Companions that had frightened her so. Of course she'd been afraid, witnessing a monster of legend burn a city to the ground.

Recovering from his shock, he finally realised what it was the Jarl was asking of her.

"No," he said suddenly, stepping in front of her. Balgruuf's eyes widened, and Irileth looked ready to strike him.

"So long as you stand before the Jarl," she growled savagely, "I advise you to hold your tongue, Companion."

He opened his mouth to retort, but stopped at the touch of Dalla's hand on his arm. She shook her head quickly when he looked at her, but the way her hand trembled spurred him on.

"What do you expect her to do, fight it? What kind of Jarl sends a terrified serving girl after a dragon?"

Irileth stepped forward, her hand reaching for the sword at her hip, but stopped at a barked command from the Jarl. She glared at Vilkas, her crimson eyes burning, but obeyed her lord and remained where she stood. Her hand was resting tensely on the pommel of her blade.

Balgruuf frowned at Vilkas, his eyes cold, but instead addressed Dalla.

"We don't have time for this," he sighed. "I don't expect you to fight it, girl. Just… offer what advice you can to Irileth and the soldiers."

Finally at the end of his tether, Vilkas again opened his mouth to argue, when he was stopped short by neither Irileth nor the Jarl, but Dalla. His blood ran cold when she spoke over him.

"I'll go."

He turned to look at her, grasping her shoulders and searching her face. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

She was staring intently at Irileth's feet.

"When I came to Whiterun," she said softly, "I came with nothing. The Jarl listened to me, gave me a job," she finally raised her head, looking at him pointedly, "gave me a _home_. If I can, I wish to repay his kindness."

"Thank you," Balgruuf said with a strained smile. "Irileth, take her to the armoury. See what fits, but be quick about it."

"This way," the Dunmer barked, stalking past.

Finally the mage, who had been watching in silence spoke up. "I should come along. I would very much like to see this dragon."

"No," Balgruuf replied sharply. "I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here working on ways to defend the city against these dragons."

"As you command."

The man's face was still hidden beneath his hood, but the bitterness in his voice was unmistakeable. He returned to his study, muttering under his breath.

"One last thing, Irileth," Balgruuf called to his housecarl's retreating back. "This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."

She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder."Don't worry, my lord. I'm the very soul of caution." With another look at Dalla, she continued.

Dalla turned to follow, but Vilkas caught her wrist.

"You don't have to do this."

Her lips trembled, but she smiled at him. "I feel that I do."

Gently she pulled her arm out of his grasp and followed Irileth. Vilkas watched her go, and felt his heart sinking.


	20. the watchtower

_**AN: **Finally getting into the bulk of the story now! I think this whole thing is going to turn out a lot longer than originally planned, so I hope you all don't mind :D As always, thank you for the continued support and I hope you enjoy_

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Chapter Nineteen

_the watchtower_

Walking through the districts of Whiterun, she found herself asking yet again just what it was she hoped to accomplish. She should have said no, should have gone back home with Vilkas. But without the Jarl, she would have had no home to go back to. He had been kind to her, when she'd stood before him in singed rags, babbling about dragons and the terrors she had seen during Helgen's demise. He had listened patiently, and when she finally fell silent he'd had a hot meal brought for her. By the time she'd finished Balgruuf had sent a troop of guards to the vulnerable town she had passed through, and secured her a job within Jorrvaskr. She owed him, and so she had said yes, despite the crippling fear plaguing her.

They had found her a mismatched set of simple leather armour and a short sword. The skirts fit a little too snug around her hips, while the shoulder guards were far too large. She felt ridiculous, like a child playing at dress up. The feeling was only increased by the steely Dunmer striding purposely beside her. Irileth wore her armour like a second skin, each of her steps driven by cool confidence. She kept the fingers of one hand close to the hilt of her sword, and her crimson eyes away from Dalla. It was obvious the older woman shared her doubts.

"I need to make a quick stop at Arcadia's," Irileth said suddenly. "Meet with my men at the gates; I'll catch up. When we regroup I expect a full recount of everything you know."

Dalla nodded as Irileth turned to Arcadia's shop, her throat too thick to talk. She continued on alone. Seeing only two guards standing at the gates, she passed through them to find Irileth's men waiting in the courtyard, Vilkas with them. He was frowning at the ground, holding the reins of the great, shaggy horse beside him. His great sword was strapped to his back with a quiver of arrows, a long bow slung over one shoulder. He looked up at her suddenly, and his frown deepened. When she reached him he took hold of her hand.

"I don't want you doing this."

"I know."

His eyes searched hers intently, but she didn't look away. She wasn't sure what it was he was looking for, and her heart pounded. Finally he sighed.

"Why did you never tell me?"

"I…"

She looked away at last, biting her lip. He sighed again, but forced a smile. He glanced at the horse beside them, which was pawing at the dirt with one hoof.

"She's yours," he said, pressing the reins into Dalla's hand.

"What?"

"She's yours," he repeated. "The stable master said she's a bit spirited, but she'll do." His smile faded, and he looked at her seriously. "The very moment that dragon is seen, you're going to ride back here."

"Vilkas-"

"Don't question me on this. Please. The moment you see it, you ride back here as fast as you can. Don't look back."

"I won't leave you be-"

"_Dalla. _I mean it."

With the way he looked at her, firm yet pleading at the same time, she found she couldn't deny him, so she nodded in response. He seemed relieved, the tension in his jaw lessening. Turning to the horse, she gave it a pat on the nose. Its breath was warm against her palm.

"What's her name?"

Vilkas frowned, thinking. "I believe the stable master said they called her Alfsigr."

"Alfsigr," she said softly, as the horse butted her shoulder. She looked back up at Vilkas. "We should go. Irileth said she'd catch up."

He stared at her, and it was obvious he wanted to try again to talk her out of going. Instead, he set his jaw and helped boost her onto the horse. She found herself relieved that he'd held his tongue; if he hadn't, she wasn't sure she'd have been able to stop herself from letting him take her home. She'd agreed however, and still intended to assist the Jarl if she could.

Gripping the reins, she dug her heels into Alfsigr's sides and guided the horse out of the courtyard and down the slope away from the city. Vilkas stalked by her side, and the guards trailed behind. Even without enhanced senses, Dalla could feel the tension in the air. She hadn't meant to upset Vilkas, yet knew that she had. With a sigh she broke the silence.

"I grew up on a farm in Falkreath Hold with my ma. Like I've said, I never knew my father, but we were happy enough. Two winters ago, she fell ill." She paused. How much time had she devoted to moving forward, forgetting the past and the hurts that dwelt there? "I- I looked after her as best I could, but she passed."

"I'm sorry," Vilkas muttered, reaching up to touch her hand.

"I didn't want to work the farm, it felt like too much. I didn't want to be alone, and my ma… the place felt like her, I couldn't move past if I stayed there. My cousin lived in Helgen. I didn't know what else to do, so I went to stay with him. I was only there a few weeks when the Imperials brought a wagonload of prisoners, Ulfric Stormcloak amongst them. I didn't want to watch the executions, but Asmund and just about everyone else came out. They wanted to witness the end of the war. We all heard rumbles in the distance – it upset the horses – but no one else thought much of it. It got louder though, and just as Ulfric was taken to the block, it – it…" Her breath hitched. "It was horrible. It was – it was black as night, its wings so large they blocked the sun. Fire fell from the sky. Everything was burning, men were dying and it looked at me. I – I froze."

She avoided looking at Vilkas, not wanting to see the look of pity she feared she'd see in his eyes.

He gave her a moment, before asking quietly, "How did you escape?"

"A legionnaire named Hadvar. He took my arm, snapped me out of it. We fled into the keep, and he led us through and out. He brought me to Whiterun, but left again to re-join the Imperials."

Too late she realised she was crying, and hastily pulled her hand away to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Before Vilkas had a chance to comment, Dalla was grateful to find a distraction in Irileth, who had finally caught up to them. The men brightened at the sight of her, still uneasy, yet determined. Dalla swallowed, wishing she shared their resolve. When the Dunmer strode towards the horse, Vilkas remained where he was by Dalla's side, staring down the elf with a silent challenge. Irileth seemed almost ready to meet that challenge, but instead huffed impatiently and stepped behind Alfsigr, taking her place on Dalla's other side. Vilkas moved closer, one hand twitching slightly, as though eager to grasp his sword.

The Dunmer ignored him.

"So," she said sharply, looking up at Dalla. "What do you know of dragons?"

Dalla felt her cheeks grow warm.

"Not much," she admitted sheepishly.

"Tell me what you _do_ know then," Irileth replied impatiently.

Beginning with the executions, Dalla described again her encounter with the black dragon and her escape through the keep, trying her hardest to recall details that would actually be of use. Irileth frowned as she spoke, apparently thinking. The men trailing behind them whispered amongst themselves.

"But did anything anyone did actually _hurt_ the beast?" Irileth asked once Dalla had fallen silent.

"I – it… not that I can recall. They shot arrow after arrow, but it didn't stop."

The Dunmer's jaw tightened. She turned to the guards behind her.

"I believe the best course of action would be to aim for the wings. If we can ground the brute… well, it would be a start."

The smoke was spotted long before the watchtower. Soon enough it too came into view – what was left of it, at least. Fires still burned around the rubble, dark smoke reaching for the sky. The stench of burnt flesh stung Dalla's nostrils, and Alfsigr snorted nervously. Irileth surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes.

"No signs of any dragon right now," she said, turning her gaze skywards. Her eyes flicked back to the ruined tower. "But it sure looks like he's been here. I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened. If that dragon is still skulking around somewhere…"

She trailed off, and Dalla looked around nervously, trying to swallow the knot that had formed in her throat. Vilkas remained close, one hand on Alfsigr's side.

"Spread out," Irileth barked to her men. "Look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."

The men obeyed, stepping forward with their swords drawn. Glancing up once at Dalla, Vilkas followed, his eyes wary.

It was quiet, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fires and the gentle whistle of the breeze. Alfsigr moved forward at Dalla's urging reluctantly, her ears pricked. Dalla could hear her own heart pounding in her ears.

The soldiers seemed to be having little luck, finding only charred remains scattered in the grass. Dalla felt her stomach churning at the odour. Vilkas alternated between searching the ruins and watching over Dalla, his eyes never resting on one place for long. He sniffed at the air, before making his way towards the ruined tower, two of Irileth's men following. Dalla's heart jumped to her throat when they spotted a guard peeking out of the ruins, his eyes wide. A survivor.

"N-no, get back!" he stammered. "It's still here somewhere. Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it." He looked about him with panicked eyes, as if seeing the damage for the first time. "Shor's bones…"

Suddenly, the quiet was broken. An earth shattering roar sounded, and Dalla froze. All eyes turned skywards as the monstrous beast swooped into view, letting out another piercing cry.

"Kynareth save us," the guard whispered. "Here he comes again."

"Here he comes," Irileth barked. "Find cover, and make every arrow count!"

"Dalla!" Vilkas shouted, his eyes filled with panic.

She barely heard him. Her hands shook, and her mouth moved wordlessly. It wasn't the black monster, but it terrified her all the same; gleaming scales, sharp horns and a wicked jaw filled with teeth.

"_Dalla!_" Vilkas roared. "Get out of here!"

Finally she heard him, tearing her eyes away from the dragon to meet his. Alfsigr was fretting nervously beneath her, her tail lashing.

"Godsdammit, go!"

Rattled, she finally took hold of the reins, just as the dragon passed overhead, letting out another terrifying roar. Alfsigr reared. Taken by surprise, Dalla was flung from the saddle, landing on her back with a hard thud, winded. The horse bolted. Vilkas lurched towards where she lay, but the dragon spoke, and a stream of fire escaped its jaws. He jumped back cursing, as Dalla finally moved, clawing desperately at the grass as she crawled towards a chunk of rubble.

The air was thick with arrows, though the dragon seemed unfazed, swooping down to snatch a soldier into its jaws, swallowing him whole. It seemed to laugh, a frightening, bellowing sound, causing Irileth to curse harshly as she loosed arrow after arrow.

"_Thurri du hin sille ko Sovngarde!" _it boomed, spewing more fire.

Dalla watched from the rubble, transfixed by the beast, its billowing wings spread wide. They were peppered with arrows, more piercing them as Irileth's men and Vilkas fired at the sky. Though the dragon was swift, its arrogance prevented it from avoiding the volley. Too late, it noticed the gaping holes in the membranes of its wings, each arrow tearing them wider. With a frustrated cry it plummeted, colliding with the earth and sending tremors through the ground.

The guards' cheer was cut short as the beast regained its feet, hissing and sniffing at the air as though distracted. It may have been grounded, but the fight wasn't over. Casting aside their bows, the men grasped their swords, cautiously approaching the dragon while avoiding its fearsome jaws. Vilkas' eyes were pained; the dragon stood between himself and Dalla. She longed to move, the rubble barely providing any cover, but was torn between fear for herself and terror for Vilkas. He faced the dragon with fiery resolve, his steel eyes burning and his lips pulled back in a snarl. Trembling, Dalla willed herself to draw her sword.

The dragon attacked, but Vilkas was fast, ducking it's snapping jaws and swinging his sword to return the blow. It struck at him with one wing, catching his ankle before he could dart away. Another guard leapt forward to strike, and the beast's attention turned to the new threat. Recovering, Vilkas stepped forward again with Irileth.

The dragon was slowly losing the fight. Its body was covered with cuts and gashes, once brilliant scales now dull and slicked with dark blood. It hissed at the surrounding guards, still sniffing at the air. Its head lifted, then suddenly turned, and the great beast finally noticed Dalla. With a sweep of its tail it knocked its attackers aside, and struggled towards her. When it reached her it paused, its mighty jaws dripping saliva. She met its amber eyes and found them filled with malice. Every muscle in her body was coiled and ready, begging her to flee. She couldn't move. Her eyes were caught in the beast's gaze, and the world around them ceased to exist. Her sword fell from numb fingers, and her heart raced painfully in her throat. She couldn't see the other guards taking the dragon's distraction as a chance to run to help the wounded, nor Vilkas lurching back to his feet and desperately limping towards her, sword raised. All she saw were the dragon's great bright eyes.

"_Dovahkiin_," the beast rumbled.

Its lips drew back in a snarl, and she could feel the earth trembling beneath her as some strange kind of force began building in the creature's throat. It reared back, its mouth opening wider.

With a sudden whistling sound, the spell was broken. Dalla blinked, and stared in confusion as the dragon screamed, its face spurting blood from the arrow in its eye. It turned towards the new threat in time to meet Vilkas' sword. The first strike bit deep into the dragon's flesh, and the second stopped its heart. With one last groan the beast fell, shaking the ground as it collided with the dirt. Dalla looked on - still unable to move - as the beast's scales began to curl and peel away from its body. Its flesh melted into ash, picked up by the breeze and carried off towards the mountains. Flames licked the dragon's body clean and went out, leaving nothing but dull bones. Silence followed.

She had barely let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding when a great rush of golden power lifted from the dragon's bones, swirling and roaring in fury. Vilkas had just reached her, when he threw his arm up over his face in response to the searing light. Her eyes widened as the power charged straight for her, piercing her heart and filling her body with its force. Her bones were on fire, the sensation bringing both pain and a strange form of ecstasy. Everything the dragon had ever been and known was inside her, its fury at its own death beating against her ribcage until she thought she would burst. She fell gasping to her knees as tears slid down her face. All at once the light and pain disappeared. She was left cold and panting, the dragon now silent in her chest. She looked up at Vilkas as he lowered his arm from his face, his brow furrowed and shock in his pale eyes.

"His name was Mirmulnir," she muttered, half to herself.

The few guards who survived the fight were staring at her, the dead and wounded forgotten at their feet. Irileth's face was unreadable as she lowered her bow, though her crimson eyes were narrowed. Vilkas limped to her, pulling her to her feet as whispers spread amongst the guards. She didn't know what to say. Finally they returned to their wounded, and counted off the dead. She clung to Vilkas, her knees weak and heart still racing as one of the guards looked her way, awe apparent in his eyes.

"_Dragonborn_."


	21. aftermath

_**AN: **I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter overall, but if I try to edit it any more I'll never be satisfied. Doing some things a little different to the game, seeing as Dalla hasn't been to Bleak Falls Barrow and hasn't encountered a Word Wall yet. Also, sorry Lydia fans, but she's not going to be in this story. I never really grew all that attached to her since I - not really knowing what I was doing at the time - accidentally killed her not long after she joined me. Whoops.  
_

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Chapter Twenty

_aftermath_

Her ears were ringing. Knees still weak, she gripped Vilkas' arms as though he were her anchor to the world, her breath shuddering between her lips. He raised his hands to cup her face, his eyes scared. Had she ever seen him fearful before? She couldn't recall. It did little to comfort her.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, tilting her face to look at him.

She opened her mouth, but a quiet voice caught her attention, whispering words she couldn't grasp. She strained to hear, her eyes unfocused.

"I can't believe it!" a guard babbled excitedly. "You're… Dragonborn!"

Dalla didn't hear him.

"In the oldest tales," he continued, looking around to see who was listening, "back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim-"

"Dalla."

"-the Dragonborn would slay dragons, and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed its power?"

She didn't answer, but he seemed unfazed. Could they not hear it? The voice whispered faster, a jumbled chant that sounded almost familiar, if only she could catch the words.

"Ysmir's beard, answer me!"

"There's only one way to find out – try to Shout. That would prove it. According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can shout without training, like the dragons do."

Another guard scoffed. "Dragonborn? What are you talking about?"

"That's right," chimed in another, "my grandfather used to tell stories-"

"_Be quiet!_" Vilkas snapped, losing his patience. "Dalla, answer me."

With a start, she realised the voice came from within herself. It chanted, breaking into many voices that were somehow all the same. Rising and falling in pitch, finally, one word rose above the others, foreboding yet somehow right. She snatched it desperately from the chorus.

_Fus._

The word meant nothing to her. The moment she claimed it, the voice fell silent and she was flooded with relief. The world returned; the cool breeze, the crackling fires, and Vilkas. Solid and warm, he was staring at her with panicked eyes.

"I'm all right," she managed at last, reaching up to grasp his hand.

"Why didn't you answer me?" he hissed furiously. "I thought-"

He gave her no chance to answer, instead pulling her into a tight embrace.

During the aftermath, Irileth had remained oddly quiet, surveying the scene with narrowed eyes. The guard, eyeing Vilkas warily and forfeiting any further attempts to engage Dalla, turned to the housecarl.

"What do you think? Come on Irileth, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?"

She glanced at Dalla, her expression disapproving, before scoffing and turning back to her men.

"Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you know nothing about." She crossed her arms, pointedly looking at the dragon's skeletal remains. "Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical _Dragonborn_." She shot another disdainful look at Dalla. "Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

The guards seemed disappointed.

"You wouldn't understand, housecarl." It was the survivor from the tower. He seemed steadier now, his earlier fear behind him. "You ain't a Nord."

The elf's eyebrows rose.

"I've been all across Tamriel," she said scathingly. "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm, more than tales and legends."

"Pah," he spat, but no more was said, and they turned back towards Whiterun. Irileth faced Dalla again.

"That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in," she admitted reluctantly. "And I've been in more than a few. I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but…" Whatever her thought, she left it unsaid. "You better get back to Whiterun, right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here."

With a nod to Vilkas, she started off after her men. Dalla finally felt her heart slowing down, her breath steady. She looked up at Vilkas, who still watched her with worried eyes. He grasped her shoulders firmly.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"I – no. Not really. I – what do you think of – of what happened?"

He sighed, once again reaching to lightly touch her cheek.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I think it's time to go home."

She nodded, forcing a smile. Inside she felt disappointed, hopes that he'd have some kind of answer to soothe her dashed.

They found Alfsigr a fair way down the road, ears pricked as she grazed. Her head lifted when Dalla approached, dropping again when she reached her, as though ashamed.

"Should return the damned thing to Skulvar," Vilkas muttered. "What's the use of a warhorse that runs away with its tail between its legs?"

Dalla patted the horse's forehead.

"It's all right," she whispered. "I was afraid too."

Letting Vilkas lift her again, she settled into the saddle, slightly nervous. Alfsigr appeared calm however, the danger passed.

It was getting late by the time they returned to Whiterun, dark clouds rolling in overhead. Awkwardly dismounting, Dalla led Alfsigr to the stables just as fat drops began to fall. Skulvar took the reins from her, and despite Vilkas' grumbling, the stable master kept his septims, and Dalla kept the horse.

They made their way to the city gates, Dalla lamenting the absence of her thick cloak, folded neatly and useless in the chest by her bed. Vilkas was as unfazed by the rain as he was most discomfits, brushing strands of wet hair out of his face.

It poured, when abruptly the sky was broken not by thunder, but a chorus of thunderous voices, echoing and terrible.

"_DOVAHKIIN!_"

The earth trembled beneath their feet, and Dalla stumbled. Vilkas had drawn his sword, but there was no threat to be seen. They waited with bated breath; all was quiet but the pattering rain.

"What-?"

"I don't know," Vilkas replied, frowning as he sheathed his blade. "Let's just go."

Dalla's eyes crept skywards, raindrops striking her face. _Dovahkiin._ The dragon had rumbled that word to her in its guttural tongue. A shiver passed through her, one not caused by the biting rain.

By the time they trudged up the steps to Jarl Balgruuf's throne, both were soaked through. Dalla wished for nothing more than to strip out of the sopping armour, toss it away and crawl into a warm bed. The Jarl was not to be kept waiting, however.

"You heard the summons," he was saying quietly to his brother. "What else could it mean?"

Hrongar had no chance to answer. As soon as Balgruuf noticed them approach, he leaned forward expectantly.

"So, what happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?"

Vilkas answered, before Dalla had the chance to even open her mouth.

"The watchtower was destroyed, but we killed the dragon."

Balgruuf nodded appreciatively. "I knew I could count on Irileth. But there must be more to it than that."

Vilkas shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Dalla. He remained silent, his jaw set. He was trying to protect her, she realised. Her heart swelled with affection for him, but as frightened as she was, what happened with the dragon seemed too important to keep secret.

"When the dragon died," she spoke up, and Vilkas closed his eyes with a despondent sigh. She felt a quiver of guilt, but continued. "I – I absorbed some kind of… power, from it."

"So it's true," Balgruuf murmured, his fist pressed to his chin in contemplation. "The Greybeards really were summoning you."

At the mention of Greybeards, Vilkas' eyes snapped open. Dalla, however, was puzzled.

"Greybeards?"

The name was familiar, yet she couldn't quite place where she'd heard it before. Beside her, Vilkas clenched his fists by his sides, apparently trying with great effort to hold his tongue. Balgruuf ignored him, his eyes on Dalla.

"Masters of the Way of the Voice," he explained. "They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

That she did know; the great looming mountain that watched over Skyrim from the south, the mountain she had spent many an hour gazing up at from the Skyforge. The birthplace of mankind, as the stories told it.

She swallowed nervously. "What do the Greybeards want with me?"

"The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice – the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you to use your gift."

"Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun?" Hrongar cried, the large man's abruptness making her jump. "That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar! This hasn't happened in… centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

"Hrongar, calm yourself," snapped the Jarl's steward, who had been watching the proceedings with scepticism clear in his eyes. "What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with the girl? I don't see any signs of her being this, what, 'Dragonborn.'"

Vilkas stirred irritably at her side, but Hrongar seemed livid.

"Nord nonsense?!" he shouted. "Why you puffed up ignorant… these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

"Hrongar," Balgruuf warned. "Don't be so hard on Avenicci."

"I meant no disrespect, of course," the steward said, not looking particularly sorry at all, "it's just that… what do these Greybeards want with her?"

"That's the Greybeard's business," Balgruuf replied firmly, "not ours."

Dalla listened to the people around her as though detached from it all. Apparently forgotten as they argued amongst themselves, she was still struggling to wrap her head around what was being said. Greybeards? Dragonborn? She was a serving girl. She cooked, she cleaned – she didn't go trekking up mountains to learn how to shout at people. She felt very small, in a world that was far too large. She stepped closer to Vilkas, in the hopes that his presence would steady her again. She started when Balgruuf finally addressed her.

"Whatever happened when that dragon was killed, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You'd better get to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honour."

Apparently as satisfied as they could be, the Jarl's brother and steward wandered off in different directions, Hrongar glancing once more at Dalla before heading to the kitchens, cursing under his breath. She and Vilkas were left alone with the Jarl.

"You've both done a great service for me and the city," Balgruuf said, inclining his head. "Vilkas of the Companions, I grant you a sum of five hundred septims. May the mead be ever flowing beneath Jorrvaskr's roof," he added with a smile.

Vilkas' eyes widened.

"Thank you, my Jarl."

"As for you, Dalla. By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honour that's within my power to grant."

He stood, drawing a silver axe from his belt. It gleamed in the light of the fire pit, ornately carved with a twisting pattern, the horse of Whiterun at its centre. He held it out to her with both hands.

"This shall serve as your badge of office. I am honoured to have you as Thane of the city, Dragonborn."

Dalla felt herself floundering, dwindling even smaller than before. The axe was heavy and awkward in her hands, and it felt obvious to her at least that it didn't belong to her. She felt unworthy, as though she had cheated Balgruuf somehow.

"M-my Jarl," she stammered. "I, Th-thane? I don't know how to be… I didn't do anything! When it attacked, I just stood there, I-"

"Hush," Vilkas murmured, taking the axe from her hands and smoothing her hair.

She expected the Jarl to be angry, offended, disgusted. Instead, his face softened.

"It's a title, more than anything," he said kindly. "Meant as an honour, not an obligation. It doesn't matter who killed the dragon. You did me a great service in assisting Irileth."

She settled somewhat, but still her stomach churned. Balgruuf noticed, and the last traces of formality fell away.

"I envy you, you know," he said with a smile. "To climb the seven thousand steps again… I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that?"

Dalla shook her head, though she suspected the question hadn't needed an answer. A wistful look spread across the Jarl's face.

"High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very… disconnected from the troubles of this world." His face darkened for a moment. "I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." He sighed, but his smile returned. "No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Dalla nodded, appreciating his attempt to console her. She gave a low curtsy, before turning away. Vilkas grasped her arm and pulled her from the hall. His hand was shaking and his grip tight, as though he feared he'd lose her should she slip between his fingers.


	22. always a choice

_**AN:** Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry for the delay in posting. I didn't really want to post when the site was having issues with views/traffic graphs (I do enjoy seeing how many people are reading this) and I have to admit I've just discovered and become a little addicted to the skyrimkinkmeme 0/0 I've gotten a fair few ideas for little drabbles from it (nothing too saucy, sorry) that I'll probably upload here once I've finished. Anyway, hope you enjoyed last chapter, and the little bits of backstory for Dalla. I couldn't really come up with a real reason for her to be crossing the border, so I settled on her just being in Helgen during the attack. Well, I'll stop rambling and hope you enjoy the chapter :)_

* * *

Chapter Twenty One

_always a choice_

She had returned to Jorrvaskr with Vilkas in silence, his grip on her arm still firm until the doors closed with a thud behind them. They'd been met by Farkas and Aela, both unhappy. The Huntress' eyes flashed, irritable at being denied the chance to face off against a fiercer predator than herself. Farkas just looked hurt.

"What if one of you'd been killed?"

Dalla had retreated, too tired and overwhelmed to answer their questions she slipped away, leaving Vilkas to explain while she fled to lose herself in hot water and steam.

Soaking in the steaming water, Dalla finally felt herself begin to relax, her aching limbs weightless in the warmth of her bath. Alone and nestled into the quiet, she allowed her thoughts to spill out, mulling over the events of the day, and the possibilities for the days to come.

Now that she could think, she remembered where she'd heard of Greybeards – they'd been spun into the tales her mother told her as a child, tales of dragons and hagravens, of mighty warriors and steely shield maidens. How much had been truth and how much fancy, she wasn't sure. The question now was whether she was willing to find out.

Upon Balgruuf first telling her she was to go to High Hrothgar, she'd balked at the thought. It was ridiculous; her, Dragonborn? Ridiculous. As she'd walked home, however, his words had returned. _There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards._ But what could they do? They didn't leave their solitude up the mountain, so they could hardly come down and force her. Could they?

She sunk further into the water, leaving all but her nose and eyes submerged. Her hair waved gently beneath the water, glistening like bronze in the torchlight. It reminded her of the dragon, much to her unease. Those eyes had stared at her intensely, full of malice and something else she'd tried her best to push to the back of her mind. Recognition. It has seen something in her and named her _Dovahkiin_. And as always, she had done nothing, too afraid to even move. She could almost hear the ghost of a laugh, in that same deep, chanting voice she'd heard earlier.

"Mirmulnir," she whispered soundlessly into the water, and the voice was silent.

Going to the Greybeards would be foolish, the stupidest thing she'd done in all her years. And yet… something told her this Dragonborn business would not just go away on its own. Who was she to refuse the summons? She looked at her hands, at every mark and blister, every cut. Hadn't she been training all this time to fight her fears? What use were all those hours, all that effort if the very moment that training was needed she was left a trembling mess, useless and afraid?

Frowning, she finished washing.

She found Vilkas in his room, pacing. The moment he saw her his face softened. Closing the door behind her, she was about to speak when his lips silenced her. She felt the longing in his kiss, his fingers tracing heat down the small of her back. Sinking into his embrace, she found herself tempted to put aside all thoughts of dragons and Greybeards, allow him to take her and then pick up the pieces tomorrow, a problem for another day. Instead she pulled away gently, her palms flat against his chest. She needed to do this now, while her resolve was still strong. It would be too easy to say tomorrow.

"I've made a decision."

Instantly she felt him tense, his eyes narrowing.

"I want to go to the Greybeards."

"No," he replied bluntly.

She had expected as much, but still his answer left her floundering.

"Vilkas-"

"_No_," he repeated, stepping away and falling into his pace again. "Of all the _stupid_-"

"You heard Balgruuf," she interjected. "The Greybeards aren't to be refused."

"To Oblivion with Balgruuf, and to Oblivion with the Greybeards!" he spat, his temper rising. "You're not going anywhere."

"You're going to stop me?" she scoffed, hands on her hips.

"Don't test me, Dalla," he warned, his fists clenching.

She swallowed, but raised her head high. She could feign confidence, at least.

"I'm leaving tomo-"

"You," he cut in, emphasis on each word, "are. Not. Going. _Anywhere!_"

She thought she'd prepared herself for his anger. She struggled to appear calm, but realised she had failed pitifully when she felt hot tears run down her face.

"I can't li-live like this," she admitted quietly, her breath hitching. "I c-can't. I'm a coward, fr-freezing any time I'm afraid. I'm useless! I need to face it, need to overcome it."

For the briefest of moments, his eyes were pained, fingers tensed as though he longed to reach out to her. But his scowl returned, and he resumed his pacing.

"I don't care. I'd rather you be a coward but safe here, than out there getting yourself killed."

"How can you say that?" she whispered, stunned.

"Do you honestly think you're just going to stroll up there, spend a few days learning to shout before being sent back home on your merry way? I know the stories Dalla, I know the history. Do you? Do you know what the Dragonborn is supposed to be? The ultimate dragon slayer. We've seen one, and I'll be damned to Oblivion before I let you anywhere near another one."

Cheeks still wet with tears, she could understand his concern. But she'd made up her mind. If she was Dragonborn – and it _was_ an if, she still clung to the faintest of doubts – then she had to leave. That dragon had known her, it had _smelt _her. What was to stop them coming to her? Whiterun would be defenceless against them, along with the citizens, the Companions. Vilkas. What choice did she have?

"I've made up my mind. There's nothing you can say to change it."

He broke.

"If you go up that mountain you will _die_!" he roared, his fist slamming into the wall. The impact sent his books tumbling from their shelves.

Despite herself, she flinched. His eyes flashed amber, and his lips were curled back in a snarl. Seeing her reaction, he withdrew his trembling fist and closed his eyes. With what seemed like a great effort, his face finally softened. He seemed suddenly exhausted, but when his eyes opened they were again the colour of steel. A long sigh escaped his lips, as he distractedly ran a hand through his dark hair. Abruptly he stepped past her, pausing at the door.

"This isn't over," he growled.

As his footsteps faded, Dalla found herself rubbing her eyes wearily. She hated arguing, but gods he was so _stubborn_. She wished there was a better way to deal with this, some way to make him understand without all the bitterness and anger. It had been a long time since she'd last seen the beastly side of him.

* * *

When Farkas found him in the Bannered Mare, he was already well into his cups, his anger gone, replaced by a suffocating sense of despair. When Dalla looked at him as she had, knowing he was the cause made him hate himself. It was too familiar to the night he'd lost himself, almost taking her in the process. He'd struggled since then, suppressing the beast to remain the man. He was supposed to protect her from her fears, not become the cause.

His brother sat beside him at the bar, the stool groaning beneath his bulk. Farkas raised one brow at the sight of the bard, Mikael. He was eyeing Vilkas warily, his normal showmanship rather lacklustre. Vilkas despised the poncy milkdrinker, but had too much going through his head to spare a thought for the bard. Lifting his tankard to his lips he remained silent, stubbornly waiting for Farkas to speak first.

"You wanna talk?"

"Not really."

Farkas frowned.

"You're not gonna talk her out of it you know."

Vilkas gave him a sidelong look.

"You doubt me?"

"Normally, no. But she's as damn stubborn as you are, once she gets something in her head."

Vilkas scowled, taking another large mouthful of ale.

"Why are you so against her going?"

Lowering his tankard, Vilkas stared at his brother incredulously.

"Even you can't be stupid enough to not realise she wouldn't last out there."

There was no malice behind his words, and Farkas merely gave him a levelled look.

"You don't give her enough credit. She's not that bad a fighter."

"She's not," Vilkas agreed slowly, turning back to his drink. "But she just doesn't have the heart for it. I could spend the rest of my life training her, and she could be the finest swordsman this side of Skyrim. But it wouldn't matter. She's too gentle."

He took another long swig, and was silent for some time. Farkas sat in silence with him, waiting patiently.

"I'm afraid," he admitted at last with a sigh, and Farkas shot him a look of mild surprise. "If she goes up that mountain, she won't be coming back."

"You don't know that," Farkas replied quietly.

"You honestly think she's going to get there alive?" he demanded, his temper rising again. "The first bandit she comes across, she – she won't stand a chance!"

Farkas smiled. Of all the responses he could have offered, he smiled. Vilkas' anger nearly got the best of him, and it took great effort to resist punching the look from his brother's face. Seeing his expression, Farkas' smile widened.

"For someone so smart, sometimes you can be really stupid," he chuckled. "Why on Nirn would you let her go by herself?"

In his inebriated state, Vilkas was struck dumb. She hadn't asked, so the thought hadn't occurred to him. Suddenly he did feel stupid. But on the other hand.

"I- I can't leave Jorrvaskr. Without a Harbinger-"

Farkas silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"Me and Aela can handle it. The three of us are hardly ever here at the same time anyway."

"There's no knowing how long we'd be gone. And the finances-"

"Aela can handle all that. She's a lot better with numbers than I am. Not as good as you," he added with a chuckle. "But we'll manage."

"Farkas-"

"What if she takes off one night? You already bought her a horse. Just go with her. Keep her safe."

He struggled desperately to think of another excuse, _anything_. He did not want her going at all, whether he was with her or not, and he was unable to voice the loudest concern in his head: what if he wasn't enough?

* * *

An hour of waiting long gone, Dalla found herself wandering to the patio, a thick woollen shawl draped around her shoulders. Her breath like fog in the crisp night air, she gazed up at the aurora sprawled across the sky, its wavering light grazing the snowy peaks of the distant mountains. High Hrothgar was nestled somewhere up there, hidden in the dark.

"So you're really going up there?"

Dalla turned with a start to find Aela stepping out of the dark, her eyes flashing in the torchlight.

"How did you-?"

"Please," the Huntress said with a scoff. "I'd be surprised if the whole of Whiterun didn't hear your spat."

Dalla replied with a grimace and a shrug, pulling her shawl closer about her. "I don't really have a choice."

"Don't be stupid. We always have a choice. You can choose to run, you can choose to do nothing. Or you can choose to face whatever the world throws at you, even if it means waking each day knowing it could be your last."

She made it sound so easy, but in a way, perhaps it was. The Greybeards were not to be refused, but that wasn't really the reason she intended to go, was it?

"I guess you're right," she said at last. "I'm going because I choose to."

Aela surveyed her for a long moment, her untamed eyes keen and searching. Dalla broke contact first, lowering her eyes with her cheeks warm and the uncanny sense that Aela could see right through her.

"You're still afraid, little rabbit," Aela said softly. "But you've got more courage than I first thought."

Dalla glanced up at the Huntress again, but found her face unreadable, at least until a smirk tugged at her lips.

"Perhaps Vilkas was thinking with more than his crotch when he chose you."

She barked out a laugh at the look on Dalla's face, stepping past her and towards the forge, still chuckling. Dalla watched her go until she disappeared into the dark. Her face burned despite the airs chill. She turned her eyes back to the distant mountains.

It wasn't long before she heard another approach, and she turned to find Vilkas striding purposely towards her, something grasped in his fist. He still looked angry, his jaw set. He appeared to have brought himself under control, though she could smell the ale on his breath. He looked at her for a moment before speaking.

"I will allow you to go-" she couldn't help but snort at his words, which he promptly ignored "-on two conditions. The first, I go with you."

She hadn't expected that. Jorrvaskr needed guidance to run smoothly, and in a way Vilkas had been the one who fell into the role. The thought that he would abandon his home to take her up the mountain had never occurred to her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her.

"That one is _not negotiable_," he growled. "You are not leaving Whiterun without me. I'll tie you to your bedposts if I have to."

The intensity in his eyes told her there was no use arguing. In truth, she felt relief. When mulling over her situation in the bath, the thought of leaving him behind had her closer to choosing to stay than anything else had.

"And the other?" she asked at last.

For a moment he seemed flooded with relief, but it didn't last long. She had noticed the colour slowly creeping into his cheeks – assuming it to be the flush of ale – but now his face seemed in full bloom. He looked away from her, apparently taking time to compose himself. Without speaking, he lowered himself to his knees and held his arm out to her, uncurling his fist. What she found sitting in the palm of his hand surprised her. An amulet of Mara.

"I would stand by your side til the Divines take us both," he said softly, still not looking at her. "If- if you'll have me."

His hand trembled ever so slightly, his eyes fixed on her feet as he waited for her answer. She reached out, her small hand closing over his as she knelt before him, the amulet pressed between their palms.

"Of course I will," she whispered, and finally he met her eyes. "Together, then."

He smiled briefly before pulling her to him, his lips crashing into hers. When at last they pulled apart he smiled again, his hand warm against her jaw as his calloused thumb gently rubbed her cheek.

"Together."


	23. departure

_**AN: **Oh my gosh, I am so sorry for being away for so long. Real life kind of took over for a while, and when I finally did have time my motivation for this chapter disappeared. This is more filler than anything, I'll admit, since there's a few scenes I wanted that wouldn't fit into how I want to start the next chapter. Also, I apologise for the scene with Tilma probably coming out of nowhere. I was skimming the SkyrimKinkMeme a while back, and found a prompt I really liked that I thought would be good for Vilkas and Dalla, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought of something for Tilma instead. I'll write it out eventually, and it'll serve as a bit of backstory I guess, since the premise already fits in well with something that's already happened in this story. Maybe one day I'll go back and flesh her out a bit more, but for now I hope you won't mind. Sorry again for being gone so long, hopefully you'll all enjoy this chapter :)_

* * *

Chapter Twenty Two

_departure_

"Make sure you pack warmly, dear."

Dalla turned from her saddlebags to find Tilma behind her, a tired smile on her wrinkled face. Preparations were taking longer than expected, due to Vilkas' adamance that they remained until he was satisfied with the roles he'd assigned during his absence. Anxious to leave now the decision had been made, Dalla knew all too well how particular he could be. She'd tried and failed to reassure and coax him, so in her restlessness had begun packing. She supposed she shouldn't have really been surprised.

"That mountain is deathly cold, you'll catch a chill if you don't."

"Of course, Tilma. I've got furs packed, gloves and stockings and-"

She looked up and saw that though Tilma was still smiling, her eyes were sad.

"I'll be fine," Dalla said softly, attempting to reassure her.

"Oh," Tilma sighed. "It's not really the cold I'm worried about. I don't know anything of this Dragonborn business, but even I know the road is dangerous, never mind whatever's at the end of it."

"I'll be fine," Dalla repeated. "Vilkas will be with me."

Tilma frowned, her forehead creasing like the bark of a knotted tree.

"Vilkas is a good man," she said slowly. "He and his brother both. I knew it the moment Jergen brought them here."

She smiled softly, her mind caught up in memory.

"Ooh, they were cheeky pups, but good when it mattered. Yes, he's a good man." Her smile faded, and she faced Dalla squarely. "But even good men make mistakes."

"What?" Dalla was confused. "Vilkas wouldn't-"

"Vilkas would never hurt you dear, of course not. But the beast is another matter."

Dalla stared.

"Y-you know?"

Tilma laughed suddenly. "Oh, dear, of course I know. Can't keep a secret like that in this hall. Jorrvaskr has been home to beasts for some generations now. I… just be careful. Vilkas has always had the most trouble keeping himself in check."

Dalla remained silent, unsure of what to say. Tilma's face softened, and she stepped forward with her arms open, drawing Dalla into a tight hug. She smelt faintly of cinnamon.

"I don't mean to frighten you," she whispered. "You just need to know that even with the best intentions they can sometimes hurt you."

Amber eyes and ivory teeth flashed in Dalla's mind, a snarling maw dripping with blood. _Vilkas?_ She had suspected for some time that she had danced closest to death that night, and that it hadn't been the thugs guiding her steps.

Tilma pulled away, and Dalla was surprised to see tears pricking the old woman's eyes.

"They never mean to, but once the damage is done you can't turn back."

There was pain there, a pain Dalla had never sensed before. She opened her mouth, but before she could voice the question on her tongue Tilma's lips pursed suddenly, and she hastily wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron.

"Ah, don't listen to closely to me, dear. The ramblings of an old woman aren't always wisdom. Just keep your wits about you. Now, I was sent to tell you Eorland wants you. He'll be up at the Forge, I imagine."

Puzzled, Dalla nodded and headed for the stairs to the hall above. She paused however, and looked back. Tilma smiled warmly at her.

"You go on now."

She found Eorland at the Skyforge as expected. He was working at his grindstone, steel shrieking against stone. She was yet to think of any reason he could have for wanting to see her. Hearing her footsteps as she approached, he turned to look at her over his shoulder with a grunt.

"Far end of the rack, girl," he said as she opened her mouth, before turning back to his work.

Bewildered, she stepped to the rack he'd indicated to find a newly forged sword, it's blade glinting in the afternoon sun. The hilt was etched with the swirling designs common to Nordic weapons, intricate and beautiful. Taking it in hand, she marvelled at how light it felt, perfectly balanced in her grip. It was wholly different to the Jarl's cumbersome axe.

"Who is it-"

"It's yours."

Eyes wide, her gaze snapped from the blade in her hands to the blacksmith's broad back.

"Wh-what?" she stammered. "I – I can't, I'm not worthy of your work, I couldn't even pay for it, I-"

"Good gods, girl," he snapped with an impatient huff. "It was ordered for you. Be quiet and take it."

"But who?"

"I did."

She turned to find Vilkas climbing the steps behind her, his face stern. Tilma's warning rang through her head, and she almost took a step back. Again, the ghastly creature he'd been that night came to mind, piercing amber eyes and a wicked jaw. She could almost hear the deep rumbling of his growl.

He glanced at her, his eyes – grey, _not_ amber – suddenly concerned and the vision disappeared. He was himself, rough yes, frightening at times, but also kind, passionate, protective. He was merely Vilkas, the man she was to marry, and the thought still brought warmth to her face.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and she realised how ridiculous she must seem to him, startled one moment, blushing the next. He reached out to take the blade from her hands, his eyes still locked on hers, searching. She smiled, in the hopes it would reassure him, and after a long moment he finally looked away, stretching out his arm to scope down the length of the blade.

"Out there your sword is your life, and you'll find none better than Skyforge steel. I had Eorland make this for you; I don't want you carrying an inferior blade. Impressive as always, Eorland." He handed the sword back to Dalla. "Thank you."

Eorland grunted in reply.

"Are you okay?" Vilkas asked Dalla softly. "For a moment there your heart was pounding like a war drum."

Dalla looked at him, studying his face, from the furrowed lines on his forehead – too much scowling, she decided – to the rough stubble lining his jaw. His slightly crooked nose – from a tavern fight, he insisted, though it was the result of past disagreement with Aela, as Farkas told it – and his eyes, grey as steel with the glint to match. So often they had seemed cold and unyielding, yet now, like many times before, for her they were soft and full of concern. He was hers, and he would never hurt her, despite Tilma's words.

"I'm okay."

Apparently satisfied with her answer, he turned back to the stairs, pausing to wait for her at the top.

"I don't think I can put it off any longer. We'll be leaving tomorrow."

"Really?"

He laughed, though there was little humour in the sound.

"Believe me, I'd postpone it forever if I could. But… it's what you want. Either way, we leave at first light, and we'll uh, head to Riften first."

Now it seemed, was his turn to blush. He avoided her eyes, though she had the distinct feeling he knew full well she was smiling widely.

"Farkas will be joining us at first, then after the… ceremony, he'll head home and we'll continue to Ivarstead. Overall it'll take a few extra days, but the damned Greybeards can wait."

His face was still distinctly pink when they reached the bottom of the stairs, but he finally looked at her.

"Dalla, wait. There's nothing I can say to talk you out of this, is there?"

"Talk me out of marrying you?" she teased.

He scowled. "I know you know that's not what I meant."

"I've made up my mind."

He appeared unsurprised, though he glanced away again.

"And… and about marrying me?"

Standing on her toes, she reached up with one hand and kissed him softly. His lips were warm.

"I'm just as serious on that one."

He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Make sure you have everything ready. As I said, we leave at dawn."

* * *

The tables were laid out with an enormous feast, and a small part of Dalla was glad to be spending her last night in the kitchens. Though she enjoyed the simple satisfaction of cooking and baking, keeping a hall this large fed and watered was tiring work. She was baffled as to how Tilma had kept up with it all before she'd come to the hall, and was glad to learn that a new girl would be helping the old woman when she was gone.

Bringing a fresh platter of sweet rolls to the table, she found Vilkas with Aela, neither looking particularly happy.

"-and ensure that you don't disappear for days at a time, we both know Farkas won't be able to keep up with things on his own, and-"

Aela met his lecture with her usual cool demeanour, waving off his concerns with a roll of her eyes.

"You're not Harbinger, Vilkas," she reminded him, having finally lost patience with his insistence. "Even if you were you have no right to dictate my actions."

"I know that," he replied stiffly. "I'm just trying to ensure things run smoothly while I'm gone."

Setting down the platter between them, Dalla gently touched Vilkas' arm.

"Aela knows how things are run."

He didn't look convinced, but Aela took the opportunity to slip out of her seat and join Njada at the other end of the table. Vilkas noted her escape with an impatient sigh, and turned back to Dalla with a frown.

"Don't look at me like that," she said with a smile. "Everyone _does_ know how things are run. You're only frustrating yourself."

His face softened as he ran a hand through his hair.

"I know," he sighed. He touched her arm as she stepped back towards the kitchens. "You shouldn't be doing this tonight."

"It's fine," she replied. "What's one last night?"

He frowned again, but said nothing when she stepped away.

Making her way back to the kitchen, she overheard Athis and Torvar as she drew closer.

"Who'd have guessed," Athis was saying, "that after all this time we had the Dragonborn of all things under our roof?"

"And the serving girl of all people!" Torvar laughed. "Someone like Njada, sure, she'd give a dragon reason to tremble in its scales, but that one? And here she comes now!"

He raised his mug to her and laughed again. Well into his cups, there was no malice behind his words. Even Athis – sober compared to Torvar – seemed amused more than spiteful.

Unsure how to respond, Dalla merely smiled at the pair as she passed. She found Tilma in the kitchen, but the older woman assured her that all was taken care of for the night, and that Dalla should get some sleep. She gave Tilma one last hug before leaving the kitchens, slipping an apple into her apron pocket as she went.

Returning to the hall, she found Torvar fast asleep at the table, Athis now discussing ideal weapons with Ria.

"I like the smaller, quicker blades."

"Yes, you're quite fond of saying that."

Aela was listening to Njada with an amused smile, as she gestured sharply with one hand, spilling ale as she did so. Neither Vilkas nor Farkas were in sight. Not yet feeling the call of sleep, she instead turned to the large doors, and slipped out into the night.

Rubbing her hands together to warm them, she stepped down from the hall and towards the Plains District.

"Dalla."

She turned with a start, but was relieved to find it was only Farkas, stepping out of the shadows.

"Where are you going?"

She couldn't help but smile at the suspicious look on his face.

"To the stables," she replied simply, continuing forwards.

His eyes widened and he lurched after her.

"Why?"

She laughed, reaching into her apron and pulling out the apple. "I'm not tired, I thought I'd go take Alfsigr a treat."

Relief instantly flooded his face, as he fell into step beside her. She looked up at him with narrowed eyes, though she couldn't supress her smile.

"Did Vilkas send you out there to keep guard?"

"No," he replied, a little too quickly. "Well, not exactly. He's worried about you. We thought you might, I dunno, take off in the middle of the night on your own."

"I'm not foolish enough to set out with nothing but an apple, Farkas."

"Right," he murmured sheepishly. "I didn't even think of that. Shoulda' figured you wouldn't run off on him though, after agreeing to marry him and all."

"No," she replied softly. "I wouldn't do that."

They walked in companionable silence to the city gates, his hulking mass strangely comforting. Farkas had always been kind to her, and found she was glad to be having him as her brother-in-law. Now obviously clear of suspicions towards her, he ambled leisurely beside her, nodding to the guards at the gates as they passed.

Alfsigr was awake in her stall, pawing at the dirt with one hoof. Dalla patted her fondly on the nose before offering her the apple. The horse snorted, grasping the fruit with her teeth. Farkas sniffed the night air, his eyes glinting in the dark.

"He got you a fine horse at least."

"I'm not sure Vilkas would agree," Dalla replied with a laugh. "When that dragon appeared, she ran. Not that I blame her."

"Well, at least she's smart," Farkas chuckled. He gave her a sidelong look. "Are you nervous?"

"I'm terrified."

"Well, my brother is known to be a bit of a brute, but he'll treat you well."

He snorted at the look on her face, laughing even harder when she punched his arm. It felt like striking a tree. Knuckles now aching, she figured she must have hurt herself more than him.

"Sorry," he sniggered, "I was just trying to lighten the mood. I know you're scared. But you're going to be fine. Vilkas will keep you safe. Besides, you're the Dragonborn! The Greybeards will have you shouting mountains apart in no time."

She smiled, though her stomach still churned with trepidation.

"Ready to head back? You should get some sleep before dawn."

Nodding, she and Farkas made their way back to Jorrvaskr. Inside, the Companions were still revelling, and Farkas went to join the discussion between Aela and Njada, which had by now escalated into an epic tale of heroics and danger. Feeling overwhelmed by the noise, and noting that Vilkas was still absent, she slipped quietly downstairs.

She found him in his room, sitting in bed with an open book in his lap. Grateful for the quiet, she fell into bed beside him, snuggling close against his side.

"Read to me?"

She had thought for sure that her nerves would give her a sleepless night, yet the words had barely left her mouth before her eyes closed and the darkness swallowed her.

* * *

Stamping her feet against the cold, Dalla drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. The sun had just begun to peek over the tip of the mountains, not yet strong enough to chase off the night's chill. Saddlebags resting by her feet, she'd said her goodbyes, and was now waiting for Vilkas to finish his.

"I swear to Hircine, Vilkas," Aela growled, "if you go over the routine one more time-"

"I wasn't going to," he retorted, just as impatient. "If it hasn't stuck by now it's never going to."

She smirked in response, and a smile tugged at his own lips.

"Take care, Shield-Brother," she said, grasping him in a firm hug. She glanced at Dalla over his shoulder, her eyes unreadable. "And take care of her."

Drawing away from each other, Vilkas watched her return to the hall before turning to Dalla, his face flat. He offered her a smile when he realised she was watching.

"Seems she has a soft spot for you after all. Come, Farkas is waiting at the stables."

Stooping to grasp her saddlebags, he slung them over his shoulder before passing her. They met Farkas outside the city just as the sun burst over the mountains. Alfsigr stood beside him, saddled and ready with her tail swishing impatiently. Vilkas slung the saddlebags over her rump, securing them in place.

They left the city as the evening's fog dissipated in the morning light, and though she smiled when Vilkas looked back up at her, her relief was tainted with dread. Still anxious to leave, she was just as anxious – if not more so – to meet whatever lay at the end of their journey.


	24. now and forever

**_A/N:_ **_I feel like I should probably just stop apologising for slow updates at this point aha. Just know that I am still committed to finishing this story, even if it takes me forever. I'll be honest, I picked up Dragon Age Inquisition on a whim and have completely fallen in love with the game, so most of my free time has been eaten up by that recently. I don't think I'll ever write a story like this for it, but I might not be able to help doing a prompt challenge or something for my two favourite LIs XD In the meantime, hope you all enjoy this chapter and thank you so much as always for your continued support and lovely comments 3_

* * *

Chapter Twenty Three

_now_ _and_ _forever_

For some time now they had travelled in silence, save for the crunching of gravel beneath Alfsigr's hooves and the lone call of a bird in the distance. When he looked up at Dalla, swaying gently with the motion of the horse's steps, she was fiddling with the ring around her finger again. Her eyes were distant, her mind elsewhere.

Riften was a day behind them now, and Vilkas couldn't help but be glad to turn his back to it. Why that cesspool of a city was home to the Temple of Mara he would never know. The moment they'd arrived his nose had stung with the stench of the Ratways, thinly veiled by the fairer scents of the market. Dalla had taken in the sights with more optimism than himself, though he supposed it was because she was blessed with duller senses.

Farkas – as always – met the city with easy going amusement, turning at once to The Bee and Barb for a drink. He'd missed the taste of Black-Briar Mead, though mention of the Black-Briar's had made Vilkas' lip curl. The rotten heart of the wretched city, he'd been glad to avoid them entirely.

Despite his distaste for the city, it hadn't gone unnoticed that the Temple itself appeared to have an aura of peace which settled around him like a gentle embrace the moment he'd stepped inside. In truth he spent little time thinking of the Divines – Mara least of all – yet he couldn't deny the presence he'd felt within her sanctuary. The wife of Mara's priest had met them, a Dunmer woman named Dinya. She'd clasped her hands to her heart in delight upon learning their intentions, before ushering Vilkas out the door again, insisting that Dalla remained. Her husband would return soon, and preparations would take time.

His thoughts returning to the present, he turned his eyes from Dalla to his brother, who loped beside him with ease, stifling a yawn with one hand. Vilkas didn't think any of them had gotten much sleep the past few days, though Farkas at least seemed cheerful as usual. Nothing ever fazed him, whereas Vilkas often felt he was floundering out of control. There were times Vilkas envied his brother's nature, wishing he could take in the world as easily and effortlessly as Farkas did. Of all people, he was glad at least Farkas had been there to witness his wedding.

The ceremony had been small, and though that suited Vilkas just fine he'd found himself wondering what Dalla would have wanted. He had his brother, but she'd had no one to share the day with. He supposed in a way it couldn't have been helped, but perhaps he could have brought Tilma for the trip, if she'd been up to it. All thoughts and concerns had disappeared, however, the moment Dalla entered, clad in a simple yet well fitted dress. Her heart danced a coppery tattoo in her chest, yet she'd smiled the moment their eyes met, her face practically glowing with warmth. She'd woven flowers through her hair.

When she reached him, standing before the Redguard priest – Maramal, Vilkas recalled he'd said – he held out his hand for her. She took it, and fingers entwined they'd turned to the priest. He'd smiled warmly, raising his arms in welcome.

"It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation, and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us that we first learned to love one another. It is from this love that we learn…"

Though he knew the occasion called for his attention, he'd found himself unable to glance away from her. From her plump cheeks to the curve of her lips, and the light dusting of freckles across her snub nose, each feature he committed to memory, so that in the years to come he would have this image of who she was in this moment, able to reclaim the scent of her heartbeat and the flowers in her hair when he needed it.

She caught him watching from the corner of her eye, a smile tugging at her lips as though she'd known what he was doing.

"…under Mara's loving gaze to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and hardship."

He paused, glancing between the two before settling his attention on Dalla.

"Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?"

She turned to face Vilkas, her fingers tightening around his own.

"I do. Now and forever."

Maramal turned next to Vilkas. He spared no glance to the priest however, his eyes remained fixed on hers.

"And do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?"

"I do," he told her softly. "Now and forever."

"Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed."

This brought an enthusiastic cheer from Farkas.

"I present to the two of you with these matching rings, blessed my Mara's grace." Maramal pressed a simple gold ring into the palm of Vilkas' free hand. "May they protect each of you in your new life together."

The ceremony complete, Maramal turned from them with a bow of his head and a smile.

"So," Vilkas said slowly, finally releasing Dalla's hand. "Is this what you expected?"

"To be honest I'm not sure," she replied, glancing down at the ring she'd slipped onto her finger. When she looked back up at him however, her uncertainty was gone. "But I am glad to be with you."

"I am glad to be yours."

And he'd meant it. Watching her now, his head filled with the pattering of her heart, he was worried. Once the ceremony was over, and the celebratory drinks had been had at The Bee and Barb, in the privacy of their room the fear had set in. Pacing fitfully, Dalla had been unable to sleep and so Vilkas had comforted her the only way he knew how, taking her in his arms and covering her with kisses. Though she'd clung to him, returning his affections with equal fervour, he'd been unable to soothe her nerves.

She'd been quiet since they left Riften, and it almost seemed her heart beat heavier with each step closer to the mountain. Farkas had attempted to lighten the mood for a time, but his jesting had earned no more than a faint smile from her, so he too had fallen silent.

They remained this way until at last they reached the split in the road. To the right was Whiterun, home. To the left was the path to Ivarstead, the autumnal forest fading slightly in the distance. They stopped, and Farkas made no hesitation before grasping Vilkas' arm and embracing his brother. Vilkas returned the gesture fondly. They'd spent time apart in the past, but he knew he would sorely miss Farkas' comforting presence.

Dalla, her eyes finally focussed in the present, slipped off Alfsigr's back to be drawn into a tight hug. When Farkas finally released her there were tears in her eyes.

"None of that," Farkas said firmly. "You two take care of each other. I'll be waiting to hear all the stories when you return."

"Of course, brother," Vilkas replied, watching sadly as Farkas headed home, looking back once to wave over his shoulder.

"Come on," Vilkas said gently, turning to Dalla. "We should reach Ivarstead before nightfall."

Once she'd hoisted herself back onto the horse they continued, silent again. Though he'd always been valued for his way with words, he found himself with nothing to say. At least nothing he felt would be a comfort to her. The sudden urge to turn around, seize Alfsigr's reins and force Dalla back home overtook him, and he glanced up at her again. Whether or not he could physically overpower her wasn't the question, it was whether he would allow himself to. She seemed to notice his gaze, for she turned to meet his eyes, offering a small smile. No, he knew. He wouldn't.

They stopped for a quick meal at midday, Dalla finally more talkative, even if she remained rather distant. More often than not her eyes turned towards the road ahead, her brow furrowed slightly.

"How much further is Ivarstead?"

"A few hours. We'll stay the night, make a start on the Steps in the morning."

"Are there _really_ seven thousand steps?"

"I couldn't say, I've never made the pilgrimage myself. You're welcome to count, if you like."

She shook her head slightly at his laughter, though there was another smile on her lips.

"I hope there aren't, for Ally's sake at least."

The horse was contentedly grazing, her tail swishing occasionally. Vilkas frowned. Taking a horse up a mountain didn't strike him as the most practical of ideas. Before he had a chance to voice his concern, his ears pricked at the sound of feet approaching, soft footsteps among the trees. They'd encountered few travellers so far; most had been farmers and the like with the intentions of conscripting for the war. They'd all used the road.

Instantly on edge, Vilkas listened. There was more than one person approaching, apparently attempting stealth.

"Stay here."

Dalla looked at him as he stood, clearly confused.

"What's wrong?"

He didn't answer, instead drawing his sword as she scrabbled to her feet.

"Vilkas?"

"Stay. Here."

Stepping into the trees, he took soft and silent steps, sniffing the crisp air. They were coming from the right, three from what he could guess. It wasn't long before they appeared ahead of him, his suspicions confirmed. Bandits, from the look of them, no more than petty thugs in stolen leathers. Once spotted they jeered at him, two men and a woman with their swords drawn.

The first to charge was cut down in one strike, causing the remaining man and woman to keep their distance, circling warily. Vilkas eyed them both with a snarl, his sword raised in challenge.

"Turn around, and go back the way you came," he growled.

The woman's eyes darted towards the man, waiting for a response.

"Fuck this," the man spat, stepping forward. He blocked two strikes before losing his head. The woman fared better by a little, frantically deflecting Vilkas' attacks before her sword was forced from her hands. She fell to her knees, eyes wet with tears.

"I yield!" she sobbed. "Please, I yield."

Vilkas had no patience for her bawling, he'd given them the chance to run. He approached her with his sword raised and she closed her eyes, frantically muttering prayers to whichever Divine would hear her. Before he could strike, small hands grasped his shoulder and Dalla wrenched him around to face her.

"What are you doing? She yielded!"

Stunned into silence by the hurt on her face, he stared at her. The look in her eyes was the same as the night she'd seen the beast; fearful, yet this time also accusing. She glanced suddenly over his shoulder, her eyes widening in surprise but he was already turning, burying his sword into the woman's belly. The dagger clutched in her fingers fell to the leafy ground. Pulling his blade from the corpse, he turned back to Dalla, panting furiously.

"Some day you're going to have to learn what it means to survive out here," he snarled. "For both our sakes I hope it's one day soon."

Her eyes were transfixed on the corpse at her feet, her mouth agape. Furious, Vilkas stalked back to the road, pausing by Alfsigr until he heard Dalla's footsteps approaching. They passed the rest of their journey in silence.

* * *

Ivarstead came into sight just as the sun began its descent. When Vilkas glanced up at Dalla, she was staring at the mountain looming beyond the town. He followed her gaze to the icy peaks, shrouded in mist. It was going to be a long climb, but he'd worry about that in the morning. For now, they needed a hot meal and a warm bed.

The Vilemyr was a simple yet comfortable inn, quieter than The Bee and Barb and in Vilkas' opinion much more savoury. The barkeep was a solid Nord named Wilhelm, who raised a brow at the sight of Dalla before turning to Vilkas.

"Pilgrims?"

Vilkas nodded. "How did you know?"

"Only visitors we get around here are heading up to High Hrothgar," he replied with a shrug. "Need a room? Maybe a drink?"

"And a meal," Vilkas agreed.

Settled in their room with a hearty stew and a roaring fire, Vilkas found himself worrying again. He hadn't meant to lose his temper again, but he knew he was right. She needed to learn, to toughen up if there was any chance of her surviving. Once more, he longed to take her home.

She had barely touched her food, melancholy hanging around her like a curse. When Vilkas undressed for bed, she remained in her chair. He could no longer stand the silence.

"I'm sorry, Dalla."

She didn't look at him, her eyes fixated on the fire.

"I didn't mean to upset you, I –"

"But you're right," she admitted at last, her voice tinged with bitterness. "I'm no good at this, I nearly got you killed."

"You think that's why I was angry? Dalla, if something happens to me I can't protect you. You need to be smart, you need to be alert and not take any chances. Look, it's not your fault. You've got a rabbit's heart."

She looked at him then, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"You're…" he struggled with words for a moment. "Too… kind, too gentle."

"That's not what you meant," she muttered.

He sighed. "You don't know what I meant."

"I'm too timid, too weak. You meant that I'm prey."

She turned back to the fire, her eyes downcast.

"You may have the heart of a rabbit, but you've got a dragon's soul."

It was meant in jest; he'd expected a smile, a quirked brow, anything but the crestfallen look that came over her face. Cursing himself, he sighed again.

"Come here."

After a long moment, she finally stood, crossing the room to sink onto the bed beside him and settle herself under his outstretched arm. Pulling her close, he kissed the top of her head, taking in the scent of her hair.

"It doesn't matter what you are," he whispered. "I love you regardless."

Slowly, she pulled away from him, and he realised with a pang of guilt that this was the first time he'd told her as much. Her eyes pricked with tears, she finally smiled. Sliding her arms around his neck, she climbed onto his lap, straddling him with her thighs. Her heart pounded as she claimed his lips with a kiss, the rhythm quickening when he clutched her closer.

"I love you," she breathed.

"And I you."

Pulling her down with him, he kissed away her tears, and for this night at least, her worries were forgotten in his arms. They would pick up the pieces and deal with them tomorrow.


	25. the climb

_**AN: **Hey all, sorry it's been so long! Life has been busy as always (and I'm still obsessing over DA:I haha), but I've been putting time aside for writing lately so hopefully there won't be too big a gap between this chapter and the next. Is anyone else looking forward to Skyrim remastered? It's probably not that big a deal for a lot of people, but since my laptop has been slowly dying for a few years now I've only really played games on console so I'm pretty excited to see the differences, especially Wolf Husband remastered ;P As always, much love and thanks for the continued support  
_

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Chapter Twenty Four

_the climb_

Vilkas awoke to find Dalla already up and dressed, checking their packs for what he guessed was not the first time. She turned as he sat up, offering a small smile upon seeing him awake. The dark pockets beneath her eyes betrayed her however; it was clear that she'd barely slept.

They shared a quick breakfast in the common room of the inn, empty bar for themselves, Wilhelm – who was wiping down the counter with a rag – and a pretty bard with golden hair. She plucked her lute distractedly, playing a simple melody as they ate.

Once they'd finished their food, they gathered their packs and left the inn, Wilhelm inclining his head as they went. Stepping out into the crisp morning, Dalla's head tilted back. The Throat of the World loomed ahead of them, its peak hidden within fog.

"We're really doing this," she muttered under her breath.

"You've only realised this now?"

She jumped slightly, apparently not expecting an answer.

"Of course not. It's just, different, when it's right in front of you."

He gave her a sidelong glance, though she continued to stare at the mountain.

"It's not too late to turn back."

Her eyes hardened.

"No. I won't turn back now."

Jaw set, she made her way to the stables where Alfsigr stood waiting, her snorting breath escaping in a stream of fog. Dalla gave her an apple she'd saved from breakfast before struggling to hoist the saddlebag onto the mare's rump. After her second failed attempt, Vilkas took it from her gently, and she pulled herself up onto the horse's back.

Saddlebag secured, they approached the bridge at the edge of Ivarstead to find two men talking halfway across, a large bag of supplies at their feet.

"On your way up the Seven Thousand Steps again, Klimmek?" the Bosmer asked cheerily.

Klimmek – an aging farmer by the look of him – seemed weary, his tunic smudged with dirt and his eyes dull. The Bosmer beside him appeared positively radiant in comparison, a broad smile on his tawny face. Klimmek sighed.

"I wish I didn't have to, Gwilin, it's quite a difficult climb."

A slight frown creased Gwilin's brow. "Aren't the Greybeards expecting some supplies?"

"Honestly, I'm not certain. I've yet to be allowed into the monastery." Klimmek shrugged. "Perhaps one day."

Gwilin patted the farmer's shoulder, giving him one last smile before turning towards the saw mill. Klimmek sighed once more, before hoisting the heavy pack onto his shoulder. He looked up as they approached.

"Passing through on your way to High Hrothgar? About to make a delivery up there myself."

"What sort of deliveries would the Greybeards be expecting?" Dalla asked curiously, studying the bag.

"Mostly food supplies like dried fish and salted meats; you know, things that keep fresh for a long time. The Greybeards tend not to get out much, if you catch my meaning."

"Aye," Vilkas replied. "I can imagine."

"Well," Klimmek sighed, "Good day to you."

As he turned towards the steps, Dalla looked at Vilkas, the question in her eyes obvious. He sighed in response with a nod.

"Wait," Dalla called after the farmer. "We could take them for you."

Klimmek turned back at her call. "Really?"

Vilkas shrugged. "We're heading up there either way."

The farmer's face broke into a grateful smile.

"That would be kind of you. Here," He handed the bag to Vilkas. "At the top of the steps you'll see the offering chest. Just leave the bag inside and you're done."

Tying the pack to Alfsigr's saddle, Vilkas turned to Klimmek. He'd obviously seen many winters; Vilkas found himself impressed that the man could still manage the climb.

"What can we expect along the path?"

"Well, there's the occasional wolf pack or stray, but that's all I've ever had to deal with." Klimmek's eyes wandered to the sword on Vilkas' back. "Shouldn't be a problem for the likes of you. Other than that, watch your footing. In these wintry conditions, the stairs can be treacherous."

Thanking them again, Klimmek headed back into town while Vilkas and Dalla crossed the bridge. Upon reaching the first of the steps, Dalla hesitated for the briefest of moments before taking a breath and pressing forward.

At the top of the initial flight of steps, an ornate stone tablet stood like a sentry, its face etched with worn text. Dalla bent over Alfsigr's neck to read the engraving, squinting as she made out the faded words.

"'Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundas; Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs; For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land.'"

Despite himself, a slight shiver passed down Vilkas' spine. The words almost had a sense of foreboding to them. He glanced up at Dalla; she was frowning, her eyes unfocused. A moment passed and her eyes met his.

"We should keep going."

"Aye," he sighed. "We've barely begun."

They followed the winding path, each flight of stairs broken by stretches of bare ground, presumably where the steps had been worn away. Looking down, Ivarstead could still just be seen, nestled at the base of the mountain. Before long the dirt gave way to patchy snow, flakes caught on the wind swirling about them.

At the third tablet along the path they found a lone pilgrim kneeling before the stone. She glanced up as they approached, but only offered a warning of wolves before turning back to her prayers. Though the mournful howls were heard in the distance, they saw none.

By midday they were surrounded by a thick blanket of snow, the biting wind bringing yet more. The chill didn't bother Vilkas, but despite her Nord blood it appeared to be getting to Dalla. She sat perched on the horse, bundled in furs with her hair dusted white. They paused for a quick meal, Dalla shivering.

"Are you warm enough, my love?"

The words still felt uncomfortable coming from his lips, unaccustomed to terms of endearment as he was. In truth the first time he'd used it had been an unfortunate slip of the tongue that left his face burning. It had made her smile, however, and that seemed more important than his own embarrassment.

"Not really," she replied with a shuddering laugh. "But I suspect I'll survive."

Vilkas kept the pace somewhat slow, scouting ahead every so often while Dalla followed on horseback. In any other situation he would have left the horse in Ivarstead, but the longer he'd thought about it the more he couldn't help but think Dalla wouldn't be able to manage the journey on foot. Besides, it was obvious she'd grown fond of the shaggy beast, and it seemed able to handle the shallow steps with little trouble, so he'd said nothing. There was still the risk that the horse would turn it's ankle on a stone hidden beneath the thick cover of snow, and he'd have no choice but to put it out of its misery. If that were to happen, he supposed with grim amusement, he would have to carry her the rest of the way on his back. He hoped at least for Dalla's sake it wouldn't come to that.

"So, how many steps have we climbed now?"

Up ahead, outcrops of stone rose on either side of them, enclosing the path for a few feet. They funnelled the biting wind straight at them.

"I lost count somewhere around the two hundreds," Dalla replied with a laugh. "Sorry."

"No matter. I'd say we must be nearly two thirds by now."

"Will we reach High Hrothgar before nightfall?"

"Aye, at this pace we should."

She pulled her furs closer around her shoulders, eyes squinting at the gale. Her lashes were brushed with frost.

"That's a relief. I don't fancy trying this path in the dark, we're likely to – what's wrong?"

A foul odour had reached Vilkas on the wind, his nose wrinkling at the stench. Alfsigr jerked suddenly to a halt, ears pinned back as she stamped her foot. Vilkas stepped past her, drawing his sword.

"Vilkas?"

Dalla was answered by a bestial roar ahead of them.

"Stay behind me Dalla, I mean it this time."

It appeared suddenly before them, bounding through the snow with its teeth bared. Alfsigr shuffled backwards with a snort, but Vilkas' attention was locked on the troll. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. This was more than he'd expected.

Letting out another bellow, the troll lunged forward, swiping with on clawed hand. Vilkas ducked, sparing a glance behind him to check Dalla's position. Her hands gripped the reins with white knuckles, the horse dancing beneath her with the whites of its eyes showing.

The troll lunged again. This time Vilkas greeted it with his blade. The sword bit deep, staining its matted white fur with crimson. Snarling, the creature lashed out with rage, all three of its empty black eyes watching Vilkas. The gaping flesh of its wound was already reknitting. They were resilient bastards, notoriously difficult to kill. It attacked relentlessly, arms flailing as it strived to strike him down. Vilkas dodged each blow, trying to keep himself between it and Dalla, who still struggled with the horse.

"Vilkas, I don't think I can control her!"

Gritting his teeth he pressed forward, attempting to force the troll back. A sudden opening and he struck again, this time sinking his blade between its ribs. Not deep enough. The troll howled in fury, jerking violently. His sword dislodged with a jolt, putting him off balance and earning a cuff to the side of his head. His vision momentarily blurred, ears humming. A strangled cry from behind him, pounding of hooves. Vilkas staggered to the side as Alfsigr charged at the troll, rearing to slam her hooves down onto its head. Fleetingly dazed, it stumbled backwards, blood spurting from its nostrils. Alfsigr reared again, hooves striking the air, Dalla clinging to the saddle. The troll regained itself, bounding towards them. Vilkas ran, sword raised. Dalla's mouth opened, and a hoarse cry escaped her throat.

"_FUS!_"

The troll was flung backwards with a flurry of snow, roaring furiously before disappearing over the edge of the mountain. The echoes of Dalla's cry rang through the air, fading slowly. Then, silence.

The horse shifted nervously, but neither Vilkas nor Dalla paid it any mind. Vilkas' eyes were locked on Dalla as his vision cleared, his sword forgotten at his side.

"_Where did that come from?"_

Her fingers darted to her throat as she spoke, her voice a dry rasp.

"I… I don't…"

She looked as bewildered as he felt, struggling to find her voice with a frown.

"Hush," he whispered, lurching towards her and pulling a water skin from his pack. "Don't speak if it hurts."

Still frowning, she took the skin, nearly draining it. She handed it back, wiping her mouth with one hand. The other remained at her throat.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded distractedly, glancing towards the edge of the mountain.

"Is… it dead?"

Vilkas followed her gaze. A shallow channel through the snow was all that remained of the creature.

"Not even a troll could survive a fall like that."

"Ally… helped."

She leaned forward, rubbing the horse's neck and murmuring praise into its ear. Alfsigr appeared to have calmed, nickering softly. Hi head still buzzing, Vilkas wiped the blood from his sword before returning it to the sheath strapped to his back. He looked up to find Dalla pulling her furs closer around her, still frowning. Meeting his eyes she started, sliding from the saddle and reaching for his face.

"You're… hurt."

Touching a hand to his temple, it came back wet with blood.

"It's just a graze, I'll be fine. We should get moving, there's still some way to go."

"Vilkas-"

"Stop fussing, love, I've suffered worse."

With a hoarse sigh she climbed back into the saddle, grasping the reins. Vilkas would deal with his hurts later; right now he was more concerned with Dalla. That power coming from her seemed unnatural. It was what she was here for true, but as she had said, it was different when it was right in front of you. What would this mean for her, what would be expected? What would this mean for them? He was afraid.

The remainder of their trek was uneventful, though the wind bit colder still the higher they went. Wolf calls sounded in the distance again, Alfsigr's ears perking in response. They kept their distance as before, howls fading into silence. They passed another tablet, set at the bottom of a weathered statue of Talos. Vilkas paused, his keen eyes easily making out the script.

"'For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name; Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar; They blessed and named him Dovahkiin.'"

Dovahkiin. It seemed from the corner of his eye that Dalla flinched slightly at the word, though he couldn't be sure. Either way she said nothing, and they continued onward.

The sun soon began its descent, sinking slowly behind the mountain. Dalla yawned, her shoulders sagging weariness when finally over the stretch of stairs ahead they saw it. An ancient stone fortress, darker still than the evening settling around it. High Hrothgar, home of the Greybeards.


	26. the way of the voice

_**AN: **As always, thank you so much for the continued support for this story. The reviews, faves and follows really mean so much to me 3_

* * *

Chapter Twenty Five

_the way of the voice  
_

Staring up at the dark monastery, Dalla found herself wondering yet again if she had made the right choice. She supposed by now it hardly mattered; it was far too late for second thoughts.

Her throat ached, still raw from the force that tore its way through. She hadn't meant to use it; the word had barely entered her mind since the watchtower. But the long climb, the troll, losing control of Alfsigr – she had been so _scared_. She'd meant to scream, but instead had Shouted, almost by instinct.

Heaving a sigh, her eyes turned down to the last stone tablet, nestled in the snow. _The Voice is worship; Follow the Inner path; Speak only in True Need._

True need. The Jarl had said they were detached from the rest of the world and its problems. What exactly would the Greybeards consider a true need?

"Are you alright?"

Startled out of her thoughts, she looked down to meet Vilkas' frown.

"Yes, I'm alright," she replied quietly, voice still hoarse.

He nodded, but didn't seem satisfied. When he didn't speak, she offered him a small smile. "Are _you_ alright?"

He remained silent, his jaw working as though debating whether or not to open it. "How… how did you do it?"

The Shout. She sighed.

"I don't really know. I just… panicked, I suppose."

His steel eyes searched hers, but she couldn't be sure he found what he was looking for.

"But how did you know the word?"

It was her turn to frown.

"I'm not sure I can explain. It just… came to me, when the dragon died. The same way I knew its name. It's almost like it became a part of me."

"I can't say that's an overly comforting answer, but no matter."

He held out his hand for her, helping her down off of Alfsigr's back.

"It's the only answer I have," she replied with a shrug. "I'm hoping the Greybeards will have a better one."

"You and me both," he muttered.

After untying the saddlebags and pack of supplies from Alfsigr's saddle, they stepped through the thick snow to the curved stone stairway leading up to the monastery's door. The fortress was a presence unto itself, solid and cold. Dalla could almost sense the strength, the age of the stone. It made her feel ever so small, yet still filled her with awe.

The ornately etched door groaned loudly as Vilkas pushed it open and they stepped inside. A heavy silence fell when the door closed behind them.

A short passageway led to a cavernous hall, lit by the glow of flickering torchlight. Dalla's gaze travelled over the walls, her eyes growing wide at the sight of dragons, carved deep into the stone. Shadows dances across their maws, giving them an eerie semblance of life.

Their footsteps echoed softly as they approached the centre of the hall, where four men in heavy grey robes stood waiting. One stepped forward, his silvery beard tied into a neat knot. His piercing eyes studied Dalla a moment before he spoke, with a voice aged yet intense.

"So… a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age."

Fumbling for her skirts, Dalla awkwardly curtsied. The man merely continued to look at her.

"You…" Her voice momentarily failed her. "You name me Dragonborn, but I don't truly know what that means."

The other Greybeards had drawn closer, each with his eyes watching her from beneath their hoods. She longed to step closer to the safety of Vilkas' side. Instead she stood firmly – trembling only slightly, at least – and held the gaze of the one who had spoken.

"First, let us see if you truly are Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice."

Finally breaking contact, Dalla glanced nervously at Vilkas. He had no answers, his shoulders lifting slightly and his eyes pained. She turned back to the Greybeards.

She'd been in a state of panic against the troll, barely able to control herself. Guiltily, she suddenly realised how lucky she had been not to send Vilkas plummeting with it. It had almost been a kind of reflex – would she even be able to do it again?

Clearing her throat, taking a breath, she closed her eyes and spoke.

"_Fus._"

The Greybeards staggered backwards, the torches along the walls quivering. It came easier this time, though not entirely painless.

"Dragonborn," they Greybeard said with a slight curve to his lips as he straightened his robes. "It is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards."

"My name is Dalla. This is my husband, Vilkas of the Companions."

All four men bowed. Vilkas imitated their gesture, though his eyes remained wary.

"Now tell me, Dragonborn," Arngeir continued as he straightened. "Why have you come here?"

Dalla frowned, momentarily dumbfounded. To overcome her fears? To prove herself? To become something more? How to put it into words?

"I… I'm answering your summons."

Arngeir nodded, though Dalla couldn't tell if her answer was adequate.

"We are honoured to welcome a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfilment of your destiny."

Dalla swallowed. "And what is my destiny?"

"That is for you to discover. We can show you the way, but not your destination. We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you."

"There have been others?"

"You are not the first. There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortalkind. Whether you are the only Dragonborn of this age… that is not ours to know. You are the only one that has been revealed thus far." Dalla felt Vilkas stir behind her. "That is all I can say."

Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

"I'm ready."

Arngeir smiled. "You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

Again, he surveyed her with those intense eyes, giving Dalla the impression he could see straight into her soul. It was a look that reminded her of Aela, though it lacked the huntress' predatory gleam. She could stand it only a few moments before glancing away, turning her eyes to the floor. When she finally looked up again, his attention was on her and Vilkas both.

"But now you must be tired. You have travelled far, and tomorrow is another day. We will begin your training in the morning. Master Borri will show you to your room. Sky above, Voice within."

With that he bowed and turned to the stairs at the far end of the hall.

Without speaking, Borri followed Arngeir towards the stairs, pausing for them to follow. Dalla fell into step behind him, Vilkas following. Though the stone walls were thick, there was a chill to the air that raised goose pimples across her flesh.

At the end of the hallway Borri stopped, gesturing to the open door. Before he could walk away, Vilkas handed him one of the packs slung over his shoulder.

"Supplies, from Ivarstead."

Borri took the pack with a bow, before turning back the way they came.

Inside, the room was simple with only the barest of furnishings; a stone bed, a small table with one chair and a large wooden chest. The room was lit by the flame burning in the single wall sconce.

All at once Dalla's previously forgotten weariness returned; she didn't even bother to stifle her yawn. Dropping their packs to the floor, Vilkas glanced at her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. There was nothing to be said.

With another yawn Dalla undressed, slipping under the thin blankets. It was more comfortable than she had expected, though she knew she would miss her softer bed back home. Vilkas watched her a moment longer before following, pausing to pull the furs from their packs. Finally settled into the crook of his arm and surrounded by warmth, she felt at ease for the first time in days. At the very least she had made it to High Hrothgar, a feat she would have once believed impossible. Closing her eyes, it was only moments before sleep claimed her.

* * *

The Greybeards rose at first light. The first hour of the day was spent in silent prayer, faces turned to the windows as the sun climbed above the mountain peak. Arngeir had explained quietly that the prayer was to commune with the Voice of the Sky, in an effort to achieve peace between one's inner and outer selves. Dalla hadn't been sure she'd quite understood, yet she knelt in silence beside them. Vilkas leaned against the wall behind her, ever vigilant.

The first thing Dalla noticed about High Hrothgar was the sound, or rather the lack of it. The silence was a presence that could not be ignored, but rather than heavy foreboding, Dalla found a sense of peace in the quiet. An air of calm surrounded the monastery, felt in everything from the solid bearing of the stone, to the gentle snowfall outside, to the Greybeards themselves. Dalla did not wonder that they could be so removed from the world below the mountain top.

Breakfast was a bowl of simple gruel sweetened with honey; the hot meal was welcome after an hour kneeling on the cold stone. Master Arngeir yet remained the only Greybeard to have spoken, and Dalla and Vilkas both found themselves speaking in hushed whispers so as not to disturb the quiet.

Once all had eaten their fill of breakfast, the Greybeards stood, Arngeir beckoning for Dalla to rise and follow. They led her back to the entrance hall, Vilkas stalking behind. While Dalla had calmed somewhat since finally reaching the monastery, his tension only appeared to have grown. She supposed it could partly be due to a new sense of impotence she suspected he now harboured. After all, the Thu'um and the Way of the Voice were just about as far from his vast knowledge as possible. After all this time helping her, teaching and protecting her, he could now do nothing but step aside and watch.

"Without training," Arngeir began, once all had reached the hall, "you have already taken the first step towards projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout. Now, let us see if you are willing and able to learn."

Taking a deep breath, Dalla straightened her back, standing taller.

"When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power. All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger." He paused, studying her with those intense eyes as though seeking to ensure she understood. Apparently satisfied, he turned to the master at his side. "Master Einarth will now teach you 'Ro,' the second Word in the Shout we name Unrelenting Force. Ro means 'balance' in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus – 'force' – to focus your Thu'um more sharply."

Einarth stepped forward, speaking for the first time, his voice a soft whisper that made the walls around them tremble.

"_Ro._"

At his feet, long, angular cuts appeared in the stone, glowing with warmth. Dalla gazed at them intently. Unable to actively read the Word – for surely this was dragon script – she could yet feel the meaning. Almost as if she were in a daze, she stepped closer, crouching to reach forward and lay her palm flat against the carving.

Eyes squeezed tight, the Word seemed to echo in her ears, drawing closer until she could hear it only within her mind. Her heart stirred suddenly like the beating of wings, before settling just as quickly.

When she opened her eyes again the Word was gone, the tiles unmarred and her hand warm. Straightening, she looked up to find all in the hall watching her, Arngeir with slightly widened eyes.

"You learn a new Word like a master… you truly do have the gift."

A moment passed before he appeared to regain himself, adjusting the sleeve of his robes. "But learning a Word of Power is only the first step. You must unlock its meaning through constant practise in order to use it in a Shout. Well, that is how the rest of us learn Shouts. As Dragonborn, you can absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly."

Dalla's hand flew to her heart, which seemed to jitter again. "So, at the watch tower…"

"We each felt the dragon's demise as you consumed its soul."

Her eyes snapped to his. "It's soul?"

"Is within you. You will carry the soul of any dragon whose death you are witness to. All it knew you shall know. What we spend years studying you shall learn in moments. This is the power of the Dragonborn."

Her heart jolted with sudden outrage. Mirmulnir. Palm pressed to her chest, a moment later it stilled again. Letting out a long breath, she found she could not bear the thought of more than one extra soul residing within her.

"As part of your initiation," Arngeir continued, "Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of 'Ro.'"

Clasping his hands together and closing his eyes, Einarth faced Dalla. Faint golden light lifted from his body, swirling gently around him before brightening and reaching for her. Nothing as intense as the burning rush of the dragon's soul, the experience was uncomfortable nonetheless, a drawn out moment of intimacy she found herself unprepared for. It seemed Einarth touched her mind while keeping his own guarded. Only trickles consisting solely of what he allowed poured out, while everything she was and knew was laid bare. Struggling to overcome the sense of violation, she focused instead on what Einarth was giving her. _Balance, without which the world would descend into chaos. As the day rises the night must fall, only for the day to give way again to night. The oceans crash against the edge of the land, only to withdraw once more. The world remains in balance, every push met with a pull– _

All too quickly the moment was over and she was alone with her thoughts once more. Einarth stepped back, giving no indication that he had been affected at all.

Dalla found herself slightly breathless, fingers pressed to her heart. Glancing towards Vilkas, she found him frowning, his eyes focused intently on her and his limbs tense as though he were ready to rush to her side at a moment's notice.

"Now," Arngeir said softly. "Let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um. Use what you have learnt to strike the targets as they appear."

He turned his attention back to Einarth.

"_Fiik Lo Sah._"

In the centre of the room a shadowy figure appeared, wavering in the torchlight – a ghostly replica of Einarth. It stared ahead of it with blank eyes.

Dalla closed her own, drawing in breath. She winced as the Thu'um tore through her raw throat.

"_Fus Ro!_"

The figure staggered backwards before winking out like a candle flame. Hand to her throat she struggled momentarily for breath. The Shout seemed no stronger than the first, though the hurt it inflicted certainly was. Arngeir however, seemed impressed.

For what seemed like hours, Einarth summoned shadows only for Dalla to dissipate them with her Thu'um. Each time it felt as though her throat were ripped apart by the force of the Shout, yet still Arngeir made her continue. Her eyes stinging with tears, she didn't dare meet Vilkas' eye. He paced behind her, his fingers tensing each time she opened her mouth. Finally Einarth paused.

"You learn quickly." Arngeir said at last. "Once more."

Dalla nearly cried out in dismay as Einarth summoned another shadow.

"_She's had enough_."

Vilkas was beside her now, his fingers tense against the small of her back. If his anger bothered Arngeir, the Greybeard did not show it.

"You are not a master of this place, Companion," he said simply. "The Dragonborn is here to learn, and we will teach."

"Perhaps," Vilkas growled, "but I won't let you kill her in the process. She's hurt, can't you see that?"

"Vilkas–" Dalla whispered hoarsely.

"Hush."

"This power is not to be taken lightly," Arngeir said softly, though this time there was a sharp edge to his voice. "She must learn to wield it." He turned his eyes on Dalla. "With time and training, it will come easier. Once more."

Ignoring Vilkas' protests, and chastising herself for crying like a child, Dalla took a deep breath.

"_Fus Ro!_"

As before, the figure stumbled and disappeared. Her throat stung.

"Your Thu'um is precise," Arngeir announced. "For today, that is enough. Rest now, your training will continue tomorrow. You show great promise, Dragonborn."


End file.
